Haunted
by T.C. Muirin
Summary: They were gone, all of them. In graves like the man in the cellar, silent beneath monuments that would whither like the names they bespoke. Names of the past. Dead.  And I was one of them.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **I've had this story idea in mind for ages, but I've never really gotten around to writing it. It's a modern-day fic, but that doesn't mean the past won't rear its head at some point. Indeed, you could say that the past plays a vital part in this story. Updates will not be regular, but I'll do the absolute best that I can! Enjoy!

* * *

They found the skeleton when I was ten.

I remember reading about it in the paper, grudgingly admitting to myself that I harbored a macabre sort of interest in the story, particularly because it had been unearthed so close to where we were living at the time. My father and I read the article together in the big burgundy loveseat that sat by the fireplace. He had likened the finding to a discovery of an Egyptian tomb: just as grand, just as awe-inspiring, just as historically significant.

It was intriguing, certainly, but the corpse had not been that of a majestic pharaoh who had reigned in a universe entirely separate from our own. There were no cartouches to identify the body, no hieroglyphics singing its praises. No gilded sarcophagus. No identification whatsoever. Whoever it was had been found how he had died, according to the article: tossed aside unceremoniously, unburied, unassuming, and utterly unnoticed for over one hundred years.

The newspaper had not provided a photograph of the skeleton. It had, however, provided a description. He—forensic examiners had ascertained that the skeleton belonged to a man—had been tall, exceptionally tall for someone of that era. The paper wrote that he was clothed in surprising finery for someone who'd breathed his last in a cellar: a velvet waistcoat, tailored trousers, and a linen shirt that had "doubtless once been white but was now, like the rest of his accoutrements, hopelessly browned and threadbare beneath the weight of time" (in the words of the journalist). No shoes, however. At least, none had been found at the site. Nothing else had been found at the site, in fact. Just the skeleton, its clothes, and a ring.

A jeweler specializing in late Victorian baubles had been called in to examine the ring, but ultimately, its former proprietor was never identified. It was thought that surely the piece of jewelry would have been the key to unlock the entire mystery. After all, it had been engraved, but, unfortunately, the writing was cryptic. Etched inside the gold band was an elegant capital "C." Nothing more. Stranger still, the jeweler stated that the ring had been crafted in a style that was popular amongst women of the era, despite being removed from the male skeleton's finger.

Dad couldn't resist jesting after reading that part of the article.

"A 'C,' huh?" he'd said, his eyebrows raised, "I bet you the 'C' stands for Christine."

I'd balked at the thought.

"Daddy!" I laughed, "No it doesn't!"

"What are you thinking, giving your ring to old dead guys?" He shook his head in mock accusation. "Exactly where do you go after school?"

"Oh, I didn't tell you?" I'd quipped, joining in on the fun, "He's my new boyfriend. I have _his_ ring, too."

"He must smell pretty bad. Be careful when you kiss him: you'll have eternal bad breath."

We'd collapsed into giggles at the thought and only skimmed over the rest of the article, deeming it largely uninteresting from then on. Over the next few weeks, news reports regarding the discovery had grown less and less frequent. Public interest in the case dwindled, and though historians searched tirelessly for some sort of explanation, none was ever found. Opera sales spiked briefly, but returned to normal when it became clear that the body in the cellars was unremarkable. Likely a drunk patron or stagehand who'd met his demise after wandering too far underground. The gold engraved band was kept and put on display in the opera's museum and has remained an object of dull curiosity ever since.

Several lobbied to buy a plot for the unknown man in the Père-Lachaise Cemetery, arguing that he played "an important role, however small, in the history of the city and produced enough mystique to deem him worthy to rest amongst the greats." Their efforts, however, went largely ignored. Unable to secure a respectable place in the massively crowded cemetery, they were forced to accept the charity of an anonymous donor who allowed the corpse to be buried in an obscure family plot.

The nightmares started soon after.

They were not frightening in the literal sense. There were no ghoulish monsters or deadly pandemics. They were simply anxiety-ridden, laden with echoing, heart-wrenching sobs, screams, and indistinct whispers. Dad attributed them to lack of sleep, an overactive imagination, too many sweets before bed. I knew differently. What scared me were not the strange whispers. Most of the time, they were not frightening. In fact, more often than not, they were soothing.

The visions and sounds in the dreams were not the source of my terror.

Because I knew they were not nightmares.

They were memories.

Reason told me they couldn't have been: I'd never been to any of the places in the dreams before. I'd never heard the voices in the dreams before. The clothes were not my own, the bits and baubles were not my own. But I knew that somehow, these were _my _memories, manifesting themselves after a long slumber.

I knew some of the screams were my own. Some belonged to another.

I knew some of the sobs were my own. And some belonged to that other voice, the one that whispered. The one that sang.

And I knew with an unsettling, godlike certainty that all the people in the dreams, the memories, were dead. That they had existed in a bygone, sepia-toned era and they'd breathed their last long before even my grandparents were born. Their hands were dust. The same hands that, in the nightmares, ran so gently over my own (yet they couldn't have been my own!) did not belong, could not belong, in this world. The pulse that beat beneath my hazy palm had frozen forever. They were gone, all of them. In graves like the man in the cellar, silent beneath monuments that would whither like the names they bespoke. Names of the past. Dead.

And I was one of them.


	2. Chapter 1

My father died two years later. I'd never fully understood the phrase "untimely death" before, but, at twelve, it became suddenly, horrifically real.

Stage four inoperable brain cancer.

The words sounded like an overplayed, deadpan script recited by an overacting, handsome soap opera doctor. That's exactly what I thought when the doctor—who, at a stout sixty-eight, was not at all handsome—delivered the news in a sterile waiting room. I'd blinked, something cold and tingling sliding over my skin, unable to process the news.

_This is another nightmare, _I'd thought, _Or a television show. This doesn't happen. Not in real life. Not to Dad._

True, I'd known he'd been ill. His usual robustness and zest for life had withered beneath several months of debilitating headaches. He'd lost a frightening amount of weight, and rarely laughed in those days; it was literally too painful, as the frequent vomiting had raged a war on his abdomen and throat. But a fourth grader doesn't chalk those symptoms up to cancer. I'd figured it was a particularly aggressive cold of some sort. A lot of orange juice, a few of those gummy vitamins and my daddy would be back, good as new, playing Scrabble after dinner and doing cannonballs in the pool.

I have very little memory of my mother. The only proof I have of her existence lies in stacks of my father's photographs and a handful of hazy memories. A tall, willowy body looming far above me, red nail polish, the smell of an unnamed flowery perfume, freckles. "Happy Birthday" sung in the kitchen. I had her lips exactly, Dad always said. Her nose. And her hands. But not her hair—thin, straight and blonde. The absolute antithesis of my dark mane of wild curls. My father's curls.

Her ashes were scattered in the _Östersjön_, east of the Swedish village where she was born and spent her childhood before moving to France in her teens. I remember looking at the vast expanse of water, my small hand clutched tightly in my father's shaking one.

"Where's Mommy going?" I'd asked after several minutes of silence.

His dark eyes crinkled in unison with his sad smile as he explained, "Mommy's on her way to Heaven."

"She had to come here first to go to Heaven?"

"She wanted to come here first. Remember how much she loved the sea? The beach? Well, the sea is the train that will take her to Heaven. To God."

I'd thought his explanation was so romantic, so lovely, that I'd been seized by an uncontrollable urge to hug my father with all my might. At three, I'd accepted his quiet, patient reasoning as fact. Mommy was in the sea, in the sky, with God now. In nature. A very palpable thing—whenever I saw the sea or the clouds, the rain, I thought of it as her way of waving hello. She was not gone, not truly. I could not see her, but she was there.

At twelve, however, I knew this had been Dad's way of lessening the impact of losing a parent. I knew she was not waving hello. She was dead. Gone, like countless others before her.

Like my father.

It never really registered that I was an orphan. The word sounded ludicrous, foreign. All I knew is that my rock, my idol, was gone. Shock gave way to blinding, all-consuming anger. How could he leave me alone? When I hadn't a friend in the world, another living relative? How could he be so cruel?

His ashes, unlike my mother's, were buried in an old cemetery in Perros-Guirec. But, like my mother he, too, overlooked the water in death. I've no idea how many hours I spent next to the simple white stone that was all that remained of such a vibrant soul, the ocean breeze weaving through my hair and rubbing my cheeks raw. I spoke to him, pleaded for his return, shouted at the heavens for wrenching him away and dealing him such a miserable, painful death. One night, I even slept beside the stone, absolutely empty and numb to the core.

It was beyond loneliness. It was compete and utter isolation.

I'd died right along with him.

Antoinette took me in immediately, without question. She and Meg were the two beacons of light in my shattered life. Meg was the sibling I'd never known with her wicked sense of humor, her mature sense of empathy. Antoinette was the very image of a saint, rubbing my back during those endless, sleepless nights, offering an endless stream of soft, comforting words. Making me chamomile tea, holding my hand as we sat on the porch and watched the rain. I thought wryly of my father's dying promise: that he, like my mother, would send word from heaven, would never forget me.

But the rain was just rain, and nothing more.

* * *

The management had made it explicitly clear that the door to room 3327 was not to be opened except by the select members of the staff who had been trained to deal with what was behind it. It was an unassuming thing, bedecked with a single silver plaque that held a yellowed slip of paper on it. The plaques on subsequent floors were meant to bear names, some newly penciled in and others permanently stamped on. Occasionally, the nametags would also have little pictures next to their legends: base scribbles that occupants had happily crafted in order to further cement their individuality. Some of the doors themselves had even been embellished with pieces of notebook paper that showcased quotes or poems, or construction paper upon which several Polaroids had been taped. All told some sort of story, and while the stories were not all pleasant, they hinted at lives once lived, barely-there but commendable ambitions, distinctive personalities.

The door to room 3327 was bare, and there was no name on the plaque.

Whitewashed, sterile, its aloofness was only exacerbated by the numerous locks and bolts that glistened beneath a thick pane of glass suspended before the wood. The staff doubted that such precautions were necessary anymore, but refused to take any chances. They had been necessary once.

The man inside was quite simply the biggest mystery any of the employees had ever—would ever—encounter. Those who had never seen him frequently marveled at his almost folkloric status, while those who had didn't dare relate their experiences. It was altogether too bizarre. Headache inducing.

He was intruded upon twice a week at the most. A veritable battalion of able-bodied staff still restrained him upon entering, though such measures were hardly needed, had not been needed for years. Still, the risk loomed large in their minds. They'd heard the stories, and dared not allow them to repeat. Those stories now seemed a tad ridiculous to the staff, however, as he hardly posed a threat in their eyes. He never spoke, never moved unless prompted—and on occasion, the workers were even forced to lift and relocate him themselves, as he remained apparently deaf to their entreaties to sit up. As limp and as unsettlingly light as a ragdoll.

He did not eat. His meals were given to him through a slot in the glass. The food would vanish, always, but security tapes did not reveal why. _He _certainly had not touched it. He never did. Residents had stopped trying to figure out how he was still alive.

There was still the odd therapist that attempted to establish some sort of rapport with him, delve into whatever was left of his mind. They left either muttering angrily to themselves or completely silent, baffled beyond words. He was an enigma in the truest sense. Absolutely unsolvable.

He had no name. There was not a birth certificate, passport, driver's license or mailing address that he had once claimed as his own. The military did not identify him as a former soldier. Governments of other countries were contacted in the hopes of securing some sort of lead, but to no avail. His initial raving had even been looked into, the names mentioned researched, his sentences analyzed, his incoherent curses picked apart, but his slate remained chillingly blank. As far as anyone knew, he did not even exist.

Something that he had insisted upon the moment he'd entered the building all those years ago. It hardly made sense, was quickly dismissed as lunatic, but I knew it to be very true, indeed.

He did not exist. None of us did.


	3. Chapter 2

No one would notice my presence, I knew. The cameras certainly would not catch it and the staff, as vigilant as they were, could not always see what was right before them. It was a strange sort of advantage we had, very useful at times, although I always felt a pang of guilt after sneaking about so easily. Over the past two decades, I had done the best I could to ensure that my life—if it could be called as such—was led as normally as possible, according to the present conventions. I utilized my unique situation only in the direst of circumstances, and even then, I did my best to squash it into repression, to forget the impossible. I was, as far as those surrounding me were concerned, as commonplace as anyone. We were trapped. What else could be done but adapt?

Naturally, _he_ had not chosen to do so.

As I slipped through the door so rigidly poised behind impossibly thick glass, I found it hard, but not impossible, to believe he had sunken lower still. His mind was seized by madness upon his death, and so it only made sense that he had arrived shriveled beneath it. Still, the truth was little consolation. His was damnation in the truest sense, and although he was well aware that he could have easily combated it, he chose instead to languish within its strangling hold.

The walls were that same starched, sterile white that pervaded this wing, indifferent, numb, and morbidly appropriate. The fluorescent lighting that lined the ceiling was either turned off or had burned out, leaving a cold darkness in its wake. His room was completely bare of furnishings save for the hospital bed that was pushed against the far wall, its metal railings dull in the dim lighting.

"Ah. You."

The white, skeletal hand that hung limply over the side of the bed twitched in unison with its owner's faint voice. He did not turn to look at me.

I ran a hand over my coarsely bearded jaw, temple throbbing.

"Still?" I asked, past incredulity. Now, it was merely a formality.

"Biding time," he answered, his voice as ragged as his wasted body. That was the customary reply. I wondered if he was even aware of what he was saying.

My gaze absentmindedly flicked up to the unused overhead lighting.

"They keep it off," he explained, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Have kept it off."

"For how long?"

He exhaled with agonizing slowness, the rise and fall of his ribcage barely noticeable beneath the thick blankets.

"You tell me."

There was a pregnant pause. The only sound in the room was that of his labored breathing.

Finally, I heaved a sigh and said, "You have chosen this."

"Naturally."

"There will be no sign."

"You are wrong."

"There has been nothing. Do you realize that? _Nothing._"

"Naturally."

I fought the urge to groan. Why I bothered with conversation at this point, I did not know.

"Why continue this? Why live—"

"I do not live."

"Then why die a thousand times over?" I cried.

Another pause, and perhaps I imagined it, but this one seemed to possess a touch of electricity. His head lolled to the side and he blinked slowly, his eyes deadened from deep within their sunken sockets.

"So I _may_ live."

"You cannot—"

"It is raining," he breathed.

The storm outside drummed its persistent, feral rhythm against the aged walls, building in volume and ferocity until it was raging a war against itself. The thunder roared and the wind tore at its throat, and the specter in the bed turned his now gleaming gaze to the ceiling and waited.

* * *

Whenever it rained, a spot in the back right corner of the ceiling leaked. Antoinette had called repairman after repairman in an attempt to sort it out, but ultimately, we wound up scurrying for a bucket and old towels whenever the weather forecast called for a thunderstorm. The rest of the dark paneled wood was still in good condition, particularly since it had recently been refinished. But that spot remained stubbornly resistant to renovation.

Luckily, it was in an area of the shop that went largely unnoticed to the majority of customers (over the pitifully stocked financial section and the door that led to the archives), and there had only been one occasion where an innocent browser was drenched by a sudden onslaught of rainwater.

Reason number one why we kept the financial section so pitifully stocked.

Still, ruined books were synonymous with money down the drain, as Antoinette put it, and in order to prevent the loss of any other masterpieces (God forbid if The History of Belgian Coin Debasement was ruined), I was put in charge of the Unofficial Ceiling Patrol.

And wouldn't you know it, solemn ceiling duty called at the same moment the telephone rang. I was, as was often the case, the only one in the shop. Antoinette had several other businesses on the side, and they tended to take precedence over an antique bookshop, particularly when she had such a "dedicated worker" at her disposal.

"You know you can always call me if there's a problem, Christine," she'd said.

I couldn't. Not at the same time the ceiling was caving in, at least. The telephone wasn't cordless. Antoinette had loved the look of the vintage phone, and had decided to keep it because it "added character."

Unfortunately, it also increased the likelihood that I would be unable to save The History of Belgian Coin Debasement from a watery demise. My eyes darted frantically from the groaning, dripping ceiling to the insistently ringing phone. One option meant ruined, one-of-a-kind books: the other, a lost sale or a missed delivery appointment.

My hand leapt forward and seized the receiver, eyes still fixed nervously on the warped wood in the back.

"_La Plume D'Oie, Rue Auber,_ how may I help you?" I recited hurriedly. Indeed, I'd spoken so fast that the sentence sounded like one long irritated curse.

The man on the other line cleared his throat and began a cautious-sounding dialogue.

"Yes, I've, uh—I'm calling for an Antoinette Giry. She left me this number and instructed me to call you regarding a shipment of old librettos. I believe your shop deals with that sort of thing?"

My heart sank. I could not hang up and return the man's call. We'd been waiting for it for quite some time. Antoinette had been gushing about the librettos ever since she'd met their owner and expected me to do everything I could to ensure that they arrived here safe and sound. She'd even ordered a display so they could be showcased in the front of the shop.

The cord on the phone seemed like an iron chain. I twirled it nervously, inching towards the dirtied towels that sat on a shelf under the counter. In the back of the store, the ceiling wept.

"Um, yes," I mumbled distractedly, "We do. She told me about your librettos."

"Excellent!" he said, all wariness in his tone gone, "See, I got them at an estate sale, didn't really think much of it. I'm not from here—I live in the U.S., Wisconsin, actually—but I was on holiday in Marseilles about three—no, I think it was four…yeah, four years ago, and I saw an ad in the paper for the sale, so I thought, hey, what have I got to lose, right? I mean, it's not like I'm in Europe every day."

I gnawed on my thumbnail anxiously, his words barely registering. If I could just lengthen the phone's electrical wire, then perhaps I could make it to the back and clean up the water before the roof gave in…

"…flew over with my wife. Ah—ex-wife, I should say. Actually, that's the only reason I bought them. She was a big opera fan, belted it damn near every second of the day, so when I saw the librettos, I just pounced, you know? They weren't too pricey, either, considering."

The cord would unravel further, I saw with relief. Sandwiching the receiver between my shoulder and my head, I bent down awkwardly and began unraveling the knotted wire with trembling, sweaty fingers.

"Anyway, I guess Judy—my ex-wife—I guess Judy liked France a little too much, if you know what I mean. Had an affair with a fisherman. His name was Gilles. Probably twenty-four, twenty- five. Strapping. Had a cleft chin. She left me for a guy with a _cleft chin. _I mean really, who does that? With someone named _Gilles?_"

If I had had any semblance of a backbone, I would have ordered him to cut to the chase so the deal could be finalized. As it was, I did not dare to upset him. The sale's value was too hefty a sum to jeopardize.

The thin wire slipped repeatedly from my grasp, but eventually, I managed to unravel it completely. My head still leaning against the receiver, I grabbed the phone with my right hand, the towels with my left, and slowly scooted towards the opposite wall.

"Anyway, after the assets were divided, she left these with me. I don't think she meant to. I'm not an opera fan. It's kind of too much for me, you know? Loud. My name's Phil, by the way. Phil Hertz."

"Well, we truly appreciate your call, M. Hertz," I said, my lower lip bleeding as my teeth tore into it nervously. There was a steady, narrow stream of water flowing from the ceiling now, forming a small puddle on the top of the bookcase beneath it.

"Yeah, well, I just need to get rid of these things. Don't get me wrong, I think they're pretty neat, but I figured the public would get more enjoyment out of them than I would."

"That is very generous of you."_ Please don't cave in, please don't cave in, please, please, please._ "I'm sorry Antoinette couldn't answer your call. She's been very busy lately."

"Hey, that's alright. She seemed like a nice lady: real excited about these. I met her during a tour of the _Palais Garnier._ Said she used to be a tour guide after she worked backstage for a few years, and was just stopping by for old time's sake. We got to talking…"

I cursed silently when the cord tugged. It was pulled taut, threatening to pop out from the outlet, and I was still a fair distance away from the bookshelf. M. Hertz rambled on, apparently oblivious to the fact that the employee on the other line was not responding. I huffed out a forceful breath of air, perspiration gathering on the nape of my neck. He would likely continue speaking for several more seconds. He hadn't noticed the silence yet...

I placed the receiver on the scuffed floor, gathered up the towels, and virtually leapt to the bookcase, which was growing more soaked by the minute. The water sloshed in the hollow enclave above me, streaming through the cracks in the ancient wood and rapidly growing into an indoor waterfall. Several rivulets were cascading off of the top of the shelf and dripping atop a group of dusty volumes. I frantically shoved one of the towels into the space between the top of the books and the underside of the shelf, M. Hertz's distant tinny monologue rattling on heedlessly in the background. He was laughing at something, doubtless a joke only he could hear.

I could not reach the ceiling without some sort of assistance, and there were no ladders in sight. I failed to suppress a loud groan and tore my hand through my hair furiously, causing a few frizzy strands to escape from their ponytail. My skin was clammy beneath the gray sweatshirt, and my head spun wildly.

The voice on the telephone suddenly stopped. I balked, stomach lurching, and ran over to the phone, my horrified gaze fixated on the now convex ceiling.

"What was that, Monsieur?" My voice sounded an octave higher than usual, and I cleared my throat in a desperate attempt to seem unperturbed.

"I just wanted to know what time I should bring them by."

"Bring…" There was a piteous creak. Wood couldn't bend like that. There was no _way_ wood was meant to bend like that. "Bring…what?"

"The…um…the librettos."

"Oh, I…the…right. How…" I swallowed hard. "Uh…tomorrow would be fine. Any…any time tomorrow…"

"Aw…darn, um…you know, tomorrow's not really good for me. " He sighed. "I'm actually leaving for Brittany in the morning. There's a hotel up there that's giving these great rates, and you can't pass up a deal like that, you know? I've never seen the northern coast, but I've heard it's gorgeous. You ever been there?"

Somewhere in the back of my mind images of Perros drifted forward lazily. I couldn't tell him that, yes, I had been there before, because that would doubtless spark more conversation on his part, and I couldn't afford that, I really couldn't, because the ceiling was buckling under the weight of what now had to be several pounds of water.

"No, I haven't, but—"

"Oh, you should go! I've only seen pictures, but it looks great. Rocky beaches and trees and all the old abbeys and there's this great furniture store somewhere up there, too. I'm looking to get a couch, but darned if I can't remember the name of the store. It's been driving me nuts for days. I think it starts with a 'D.' Dupin? De…de Something-or-Other…aw, geez, don't you hate that? When you can't remember something for the life of you? Ha, I've seriously been—"

"When could you bring the librettos over, M. Hertz?" I interrupted with more force than I meant to. I felt terrible speaking to him like that, I truly did, but if I didn't get rid of him within the next ten seconds, the financial section was a goner.

He made a little disapproving noise at the sound of my irritable voice. "Um, well…"

"Today?" I figured my best bet was to feed him options.

"I—gee, you think that would work? I suppose I could stop over today. Didn't really have much planned, aside from packing, you know. Which reminds me, I should probably get a new toothbrush for the trip. Do you know where I could get a new-?"

"_Time?_" I practically shouted.

The affronted noise came again, but he eventually answered, "Uhh…what-what time is good for you guys?"

"Any time. I don't care. Any..." _Plop._ The water was growing ferociously insistent now, the roof screaming in agony.

_Plop. Plop. Plopplopplopplop. _

_Please no, please, please, I can't reach it, I can't…oh, please don't—_

"Let's see…" I heard M. Hertz's voice as if through a tunnel. My heart was throbbing madly in my eardrums. "It's two now…oh, wait, that's right, I forgot to reset my watch after I got the battery replaced. Ha, man, I'm an airhead sometimes…so let's see…what is it, three?"

I groaned and hurled another towel towards the bookcase. It missed and fell to the floor pathetically.

"What about four?" he continued unabashed, "Would that be alright?"

"It is four," I whimpered.

"It's—oh, what do you know, it is! Darn watch! Five, then?"

But I did not stay to squeak out a response, because at that second, the ceiling let out a mighty final lament and bulged outwards, outwards, stretching like some sort of bizarre wooden rubber. I dropped the receiver and launched myself at the soon-to-be scene of the catastrophe, swiping and grabbing as many books as I could out of harm's way. Then my fingers tore frantically at the bookshelf itself. It was so massive that I'd only managed to pull it about two feet away from the wall when something screeched, followed by what sounded like an approaching monsoon. I watched in horror as the torrent of rainwater fell down as if in slow motion, threatening to douse the old bookshelf that Antoinette was so stubbornly proud of.

I didn't think—I just threw myself behind the mammoth piece of furniture and, summoning up whatever feeble strength I could muster, hurled myself furiously against its unvarnished back. By some miracle, some unheard of stroke of luck, it gave beneath the push, creaking like a giant rusty hinge as it fell forward and landed on the ground with a vengeful crash loud enough to wake the Titans at the same moment a storm splashed into the room and onto the only person foolish enough to wait for its arrival.

Me.

My knees buckled beneath the weight of the water and I plunged forward, my hands sliding out from under me on the floorboards slick with water. My chin collided angrily with the ground, sending a sharp pain ricocheting through my jaw. The pain was momentarily blinding, and for several seconds I sat there, dripping and spitting out mouthfuls of brown rainwater that smelled of antiques, eyes squeezed tightly shut against the throbbing headache that had exploded into my skull. When it had subsided slightly, I opened my eyes, dreading the devastation.

The ancient bookcase lay defeated beside me, broken in two by the impact and decades of use. Its shelves were now nothing but jagged shards of wood pointing towards the gaping chasm in the ceiling at wayward angles. A few of the books had been successfully tossed out of harm's way, but I noticed with a dull sense of horror that a large pile of them had become hopelessly waterlogged. One of those unlucky tomes squatted feebly by my bleeding hand, which had been scratched and splintered as I'd tried in vain to wrestle the bookshelf away from its impending doom. I picked up the book and shook out its swollen, dripping pages, groaning as I eyed the title.

The History of Belgian Coin Debasement.

Numbly, I tossed it aside where it splashed back into its grave. I put my hand on the wall to steady myself, attempting to stand and salvage whatever I could, but my feet gave way and I toppled back into the murky puddle that sprawled smoothly across the floor. I'd landed shoulder first this time, and it throbbed in unison with my bruised jaw.

A few feet away M. Hertz's cautious voice sounded from the abandoned receiver.

"So...five's good, then?


	4. Chapter 3

"At least there are only seventeen."

I exhaled and plopped the last swollen volume into the box with the others. It made a rather pathetic squelching sound as it fell into place. Meg grimaced.

"Exactly," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. "This is a disaster. This is beyond a disaster. Look at this!"

She looked. Her grimace deepened, but she shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance.

"But there are only seventeen ruined ones," she offered feebly, gesturing to the box of soggy books, "There could have been more."

"I know, but still, it's just…"

"Sure smells nice, though."

A bitter odor similar to one that hovers around old furniture was wafting out from the gaping hole in the ceiling. In the short span of time since it had broken open, Meg and I had done our best to camouflage the smell, but had been afforded little success: the store now smelled like old furniture _and_"crisp linen" air freshener.

"Poor Mom," Meg sighed, eyeing the shattered bookshelf. I could not help but think the same. Antoinette had wilted with grief when I had phoned her to break the news.

"What do you mean waterlogged?" she'd asked slowly, as if afraid of the answer.

"The roof just sagged open," I'd explained wearily, "I managed to save some, but quite a few of them are beyond repair. Antoinette, I am so sorry. I should have—"

"No, no, Christine, it is not—there is no way we could have expected this." The grieved resignation of in her voice would have been comical had I been inclined to laugh. As it was, my knees were throbbing in silent agony, so I simply listened, a migraine gathering strength behind my temples.

"You know how many times we attempted to repair the roofing," she continued, "It is…there was no avoiding it, I suppose."

"I know, but it's…it's an absolute mess. I wish I could have done something, anything else."

She'd sighed with infinite sadness. If ever there was a devoted bibliophile, it was Antoinette. Nine times out of ten, her resilient, no-nonsense attitude could put a drill sergeant to shame, but present her with a soiled Milton anthology, and she was reduced to tears.

"Never mind, never mind," she'd said, "We'll sort it all out, hmm? Just put the…"-here she paused, struggling to form the words—"…the ruined ones in a box in the storeroom. I have a meeting at five, but I'll be over there as soon as I can. Oh…wait…wasn't…wasn't there someone coming to deliver librettos today? That American?"

My headache worsened at the thought of the well-meaning yet bumbling M. Hertz. I'd told her that yes, he would be arriving shortly: unfortunately not to a quaint little storefront, but to what was in all probability a soggy biohazard.

"But I'll be sure to mop up most of the sludge before he arrives," I added.

I couldn't be sure, but I'd thought I'd heard her whimper at the word "sludge."

Several minutes later, Meg had bounded through the front door to help, bearing a fresh stack of towels, cleaning supplies, and two bottles of soda and an enormous chocolate bar "for medicinal purposes."

We each made our way over to the front desk where the "medicine" sat tantalizingly on the checkout stand. Beyond exhaustion, I grabbed the cola and slid down to the floor, my back against the counter and my legs sprawling out awkwardly in front of me. Meg followed, chocolate in hand.

"Ah, well," she said pleasantly, her fingers deftly peeling the foil back from the candy bar. "What are you gonna do, huh? They were crappy books, anyway."

I couldn't help but laugh in agreement. In all honesty, I doubted anyone would miss the damaged tomes for their content. Still…

"They were one-of-a-kinds," I reminded her, "Some of them were incredibly old, too. One, two hundred years old—"

"I know. I smelled them." The chocolate made a crisp snapping sound as she broke a piece off the bar and popped it into her mouth. "What's done is done, I guess. No sense in lamenting over it. Although Mom will, I'm sure. She'll be in agony over the books for weeks. What is it with her?"

I grabbed a square and nibbled on it contemplatively.

"I can understand it. There's a sense of…how can I say this without sounding absurd-?"

"You probably can't."

"It's just that there is a sense of history in those pages. Beyond the literal aspect, I mean. Your mother is in tune to that, to the fact that those pages…someone was holding those pages, touching them decades ago. Think of it. Someone who was living, breathing in a completely different world was seeing the same thing you're seeing. The book itself could be terribly boring, but the fact that it still exists…it's amazing, in a strange sort of way. Like you've captured a piece of time, and no one can take it away from you."

Meg cocked an eyebrow in amusement and bit into another square of chocolate.

"I think Mom is rubbing off on you," she said matter-of-factly.

"I told you I would sound absurd."

"No, no, I get it. I do. Granted, I'm not as moved by it as you two seem to be, but they are neat. Remember _grandmère_? Her attic, and that one box with the old dresses and hats inside of it?"

I grinned at the memory. When I was thirteen, the Girys had insisted I travel with them over the holidays to visit Antoinette's mother-in-law, who lived in an ancient wooden cottage near the German border. Meg's _grandmère_ was prickly in nature but tender at heart, and harbored a love for all things romantic. She'd given us permission to ransack her attic, and Meg and I had spent hours oohing and aahing over the yellowed gowns and bonnets that had spent the better part of a century hidden inside trunks and boxes.

"I got that feeling with those dresses," Meg went on, "It was pretty neat to see them firsthand. They were worth their weight in entertainment, weren't they? Making the skirts poof out when you twirled in a circle…"

"Remember what happened to the white one?"

"The wedding dress?"

"No, no, the other one. It had these floaty lace sleeves—"

"Oh, the one with the blue hem?"

"Yes!" I laughed, "I wore it to breakfast one morning, and you were wearing those old boots with your pajamas-"

"Loved those things."

"The boots or the pajamas?"

"Both."

"I should've stuck with my pajamas," I continued with a sigh, "What was I thinking? Maple syrup and cranberry juice with a white dress? I was such a bubble head…"

"Christine, we were kids. All kids are bubble heads."

"I spilled juice and syrup all down the front of it." I winced at the memory. "Your poor _grandmère_…oh, she hated me for it!"

"Nah, she didn't. She seemed fine after she fainted. And most of the stains came out. She might have had a minor coronary, but she didn't hate you."

"I was never included in any holiday invitations after that," I pointed out.

"Don't take it personally." As if apologizing on behalf of her grandmother, Meg smiled kindly and handed me a healthy sized portion of the chocolate bar. "She stopped inviting Uncle Jean after he moved to London. Of course, that was after she'd gotten up there in years and thought that the Hundred Years' War was still in full swing—"

Meg's words were suddenly cut short by a series of frantic sounding knocks that issued from one of the display windows. Placing the chocolate on the counter, I hurried to the source of the noise, my already frazzled nerves winding up yet again. I wondered how much more of this I could take. I was long overdue for an emotional breakdown, and I could only pray that it wouldn't sneak up on me at an inopportune moment—granted, there was hardly an opportune moment for a breakdown, but weeping uncontrollably alone was infinitely preferable to doing so in front of a customer.

And I supposed the person knocking on the other side of the glass was just the customer Antoinette had been waiting for. He was a short, portly man with prickly-looking graying hair that stuck out over a large forehead. In his arms were two enormous boxes, which swayed precariously as he continued to knock, despite the heavy load. His fist peeked out from below one of the boxes, and each time he swung it towards the glass, his package teetered, inches away from flying out of his arms and through the window.

Unwilling to have another catastrophic mess to clean up after, I jerked the front door open, heedless of the merry tinkling of the bell that was tied to its handle. Sprinting towards the man, I breathlessly cried, _"Monsieur, s'il vous plaît, est-ce que je peux vous aider?"_

He jumped at the sound. My concerns about my disheveled appearance were immediately confirmed when his expression became one of mild shock as he studied me.

"I, ah—I'm looking for a Christine," he said slowly, and, I might add, very cautiously. I could hardly find him at fault. I must have looked utterly mad after being rained upon by decades-old dust and rainwater. He continued, however, albeit carefully. "I'm supposed to drop these off, but I think I might have the wrong address. I mean, the sign says this is _La Plume D'Oie_, but it doesn't—"

"You have the right address, don't worry," I said hurriedly, "I'm Christine—"

"Oh, good! We spoke over the phone," he added, as if I had somehow forgotten.

"Yes, I—"

"Phil Hertz," he said with a friendly smile, and his right hand popped out from beneath one of the two cardboard boxes he was holding. I shook it awkwardly, and opened my mouth to offer to carry one of the packages, but was cut short once again.

"Ha, glad you shook my hand! I thought you were going to do one of those weird kissing things that you guys do. You know, like this?" He kissed the air to the right and left of him, squinting his eyes in mock affection. "It's not that I don't appreciate it, you know, cultural ticks and whatnot, but I gotta level with you, it's getting pretty creepy."

"Shall I-?"

"Maybe I just got off to a bad start with it, though, eh? See, I thought I was supposed to do it with everyone, so I tried it on the cab driver on the way here, and let's just say I was a little unprepared for getting flipped the bird so early in the morning."

"Monsieur, would you like me to-?"

"Although, looking back, I can't believe I was so stupid. I mean, the guy's forearms were the size of hams and he had this really awesome mustache, too, and let's face it, mustaches like that mean business. He probably wasn't a kissy-kissy kind of guy—"

"Let me take those for you!" I said loudly over the rambling that was becoming all too familiar. He quieted for a moment in surprise and then looked down at his heavy load, as if seeing it for the first time.

"Oh, jeez, yeah, that would help. You sure you can carry one? They're awfully heavy."

"Of course," I assured him.

"Okey dokey, then."

He plopped one of the packages into my arms so suddenly that I was utterly unprepared for its weight. I staggered forward momentarily before regaining my balance, my already sore muscles protesting anew.

"You sure you got it?" he asked.

"Yes, I've got it." L_ord above, how much does this thing weigh?_ "Would you follow me inside?"

"Oh, okay. You know, I was worried there when I saw the shop. It looks like a warzone in there. You guys renovating?"

"Um, not exactly..."

"Pipe burst, then?"

"I suppose you could say that," I said. As we reached the store's entrance, I moved to awkwardly push the door open with my toe, but was relieved to see Meg finish the job for me. Her blonde mane swung cheerily as she poked her head out and surveyed M. Hertz with barely veiled amusement.

"Hello," she said, a smirk playing on her lips.

"Hello back!" M. Hertz chirped from behind me. My heart sank slightly. I could tell he was ready to launch into another babbling monologue. "Phil Hertz. Nice to meet you!"

"Charmed, M. Hertz," Meg said, her voice quivering as she struggled to contain an eruption of giggles, doubtless sparked by his eyewear. Crookedly perched atop his blunt, pockmarked nose were glasses at least fifty years out of style. The lenses were incredibly thick, black-rimmed, and magnified his eyes tenfold, lending him a slightly bug-eyed, cartoonish appearance. The fact that he was bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet in excitement—over what, I hadn't the faintest idea—didn't exactly help. Meg's face was reddening at an alarming rate, and when she bit her finger to stifle a snort, I knew it was time for damage control.

"Excuse us, Meg," I said hurriedly as I shoved past her and into the dimly lit storefront. I should have stepped aside and allowed M. Hertz to enter before me, but the last thing I wanted was the two of them alone together, however briefly. Meg looked about to pop with mirth, and I sincerely doubted M. Hertz would have appreciated being the object of that mirth, however thrilled he seemed.

"Are these the librettos?" I asked him quickly, stepping in front of Meg.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered proudly, "Where should we put them?"

"Right here should do for now."

After both boxes had been placed on the checkout stand, M. Hertz sighed satisfactorily, turning towards Meg with a smile.

"You say your name was Meg?"

Thankfully, she'd managed to calm herself down enough to answer, "No, actually. Christine did. But yes. I'm Meg Giry."

"Giry? Hey, you're that Antoinette lady's daughter, aren't you? The one I talked to about these?" He jerked a thumb towards the boxes.

"Guilty as charged."

"You look like her. Same eyes, same hair. Minus the bun." He leaned comfortably against the counter, scratching the back of his head. "Anyway, the reason I ask is I've got a cousin named Meg. Well, her real name's Margarie, but she says that makes her sound like she should be training Corgis for the queen, so she prefers Meg. Which really isn't much better, but what're you gonna do, huh?"

"Uh _huh_." There was a note of profound irritation in Meg's voice. Her given name, like M. Hertz's cousin's, had always been a source of contention. "Meg," was a substitute for "Marguerite," a name that, as I'd been warned over the years, I was never to utter aloud unless I wanted to be clobbered.

"So, yeah, cousin Meg and I are real tight," he continued, "She's got this dog, right? This big old mastiff that drools like hell. You ever seen those? The huge brown ones with the flat nose and those jowls that wobble? It's freaking disgusting. But cousin Meg's mastiff's pretty sweet, all things considered. He's a stud, too. Loves the ladies. I think they probably dig him, too, because…you know. He's anatomically gifted in certain areas. What's funny is, the first time I saw him, I'd never seen a bigger pair of—_Holy crap_!"

I started upon look of shock on his face. "What—?"

"This is worse than I thought! What _happened_ in here?" he wanted to know, surveying his surroundings in distaste and amazement for the first time. "You two blow a hole through the roof or what?"

"Oh, yeah, that's it. We totally just blew the roof the smithereens with bazookas," Meg spat, obviously still irked over the name debacle.

"Bazookas? Really?"

"No, no," I interrupted, shooting a frustrated glare Meg's way, "No bazookas. Just rain. This building's very old, and that spot back there had always leaked—"

M. Hertz's mouth formed an 'o' of understanding and he nodded, "I see. Water weight was too much, huh?"

"Yes, it—"

"Wow, that really did some damage, didn't it?"

"Unfortunately—"

"Stinks like a hog in a sauna," he observed with a sniff, "There might be mold up there, you know."

I hadn't thought of that. I groaned inwardly for what had to be the millionth time that day. Yet another obstacle to wrestle.

M. Hertz must have seen my dismayed expression, for he smiled kindly and put a hand on my shoulder.

"Don't worry about it too much. You can get rid of mold easily enough. Take my house, for instance. Few years ago, Judy—she's my ex-wife. I think I told you on the phone?"

"Yes, you did." I only vaguely recalled Judy, mostly because at the time he'd mentioned her, I was having a heart attack watching the ceiling cave in.

"Yeah…left me for Gilles."

"I remember…I'm terribly sorry about that—"

"Gilles, huh?" Meg said. "Ouch."

"Right on," M. Hertz said irritably, "We were on vacation, too. The guy's, like, twenty-five or something. He's got these huge biceps that are completely unnecessary, if you ask me. Compensating. I'm telling you, he's compensating. You know why? Because he's a fisherman. A _fisherman. _What the hell was Judy thinking?"

"Probably that she was craving some fish—"

"Um, what were you saying about the mold, Monsieur?" I interjected hastily, elbowing Meg in the side.

The look of mingled sorrow and disgust that had started to creep over his features quickly vanished, replaced once again by one of enthusiasm.

"Oh. Right. Well, like I said, a few years ago, Judy and I found this weird green…stuff…growing around the tiles in the shower. Turns out there was an army of mold in the wall upstairs. I managed to get rid of most of it myself…I've dabbled in construction, so I knew a little bit about it. Called a company to do the rest, and they managed it fine. I guess what I'm saying is, if there's any problem mold-wise, I'll be happy to take care of it for you."

His smile was so genuinely kind that I couldn't help but do the same in gratitude.

"Thank you so much. I've had a…well, a bit of a rough week, so I truly appreciate it."

"Sure thing, little lady. But enough about mold and ceilings. You want to take a look at those librettos? Might cheer you up."

"I'd love to!" I really was excited to see them. I couldn't wait to take my time examining them, something that would likely take a few hours. If the weight of the boxes had been any indication, there must have been hundreds of pages worth of music in there.

"Now, be careful with them," M. Hertz said as I hovered over the boxes. Meg looked on in amusement.

"There's a few newer ones in there, but most of them look like they're from the turn of the century or before. I think I saw one that was dated—"

"Oh, my gosh, does that say 1825?"

He peered over his coke-bottle glasses and nodded smartly.

"Yeah, that's one of the oldest. Cool, huh?"

"That is pretty incredible," Meg agreed.

"You can take them out if you want. They won't bite, you know. Just be really careful. I almost ripped one the other day when I sat on it."

Meg and I each reached into a box and gently lifted out a small stack from the top of the piles. The parchment was yellowed and brittle, leathery and fragile beneath the weight of time.

"1902," I heard Meg say as the sheets in her arms rustled noisily, "Wow, 1902, 1905, 1898…"

"This is the one from 1825. Wow, Meg, look!"

She let out a low whistle. "Check that out! _Oh, my God_! Oh my-Chris! Chris, this one says _1650_!"

"That's 1950, Meg."

"Oh." She squinted at the page. "You're right. I was wondering why it looked so new."

"You see the one in red ink?" M. Hertz asked.

"No, where?" Meg was enjoying this more than I thought she would. Eagerly, she leafed through her stack of librettos.

"I think Christine has it," M. Hertz said. "It should be in the middle of the pile somewhere. I remember putting it in that box. It looks so neat, I've got to show you. See if it's in there." He waved his hand towards my librettos, bouncing on the balls of his feet again.

I couldn't help but chuckle as I gingerly flipped past sheet music dated 1896, 1895, 1890. Back further still to 1888, 1885, 1883, 1882…

"There it is!"

"Ooh, creepy! Christine, tilt it this way so I can see!"

"I've got to admit, I have no idea what any of that means—that was Judy's forte—but this one is just so killer."

"You're right...very Jekyll and Hyde, isn't it, Chris?"

"I thought the same thing! Told Judy, but she really couldn't have cared less. Gilles had gotten to her by that point."

"I wonder why it's written in red."

"Looks angry, doesn't it? And the ink is like new. Sure doesn't look that old. There's no date on it—"

"1881," I said abruptly. "It was written in 1881."

It had spilled from my mouth as if a dam had broken. I hadn't said a word since I'd pulled the libretto out. Meg and M. Hertz stopped midsentence and stared at me, the latter's jaw gaping open slightly.

A furious blush crept up my cheeks, my head spinning and my heartbeat throbbing in my ears. The score felt hot in my hands, feverish…familiar...

"Sorry. I don't…I don't know where that came from. I, um…"

"Lucky guess?" Meg suggested.

"Sure…"

"How can you even guess, though?" M. Hertz wanted to know, his magnified eyes blinking in confusion. "There's no date. I mean, you can tell it's one of the earlier ones, but there's no date."

Silence. My eyes were hot, my stomach was churning, and my heartbeat was drowning out his voice. I stared at the music in front of me, at the elegant yet frantically penned notes, the curl of the treble clef, the blank spot where the title and date should have been.

"Christine?"

_"What will you title it?"_

"She okay?"

_"I should think that would be fairly obvious, my dear."_

"Christine? What is it? What's wrong?"

_ "What do you mean?"_

"She's breathing really heavily…. you okay, little lady?" A hand on my shoulder. I scarcely felt it. "Listen, she's rasping…can you hear it?"

Can you hear…?

Can…

_"Can you hear it?"_

_His voice is so familiar, and yet unlike any I have ever heard before. Sublimely rich, melodious…I involuntarily let out a sigh, something deep within me swelling at the sound._

_Yet I cannot comprehend his cryptic question, and I ask, "What?"_

_"Listen," he breathes, his large, pale hands hovering over the keys for a moment and then diving gracefully into them yet again, sliding and flitting about with dizzying speed before gradually, achingly, slowing to a soft whisper. My eyes shut of their own accord, the sheer, untainted beauty of the song enveloping me in tender waves. I am jarred when it stops, wishing nothing more than for it to continue, to spiral into magnificent eternity._

_He inhales deeply, swept away along with me, and I watch as his eyes briefly flicker towards the heavens before boring brilliantly into mine._

_"Can you hear it?" he asks again._

_I believe I can, although I know I cannot hear it as he does; but he elaborates before I have the chance to answer incorrectly. "Such a subtle harmony. So delicately entwined, as if held together by lace. Those chords—yes, they can exist separately. They can be paired with others, can they not? But how marvelous is that one particular union, a fragile connection that ultimately proves formidable…"_

_Our eyes lock, hovering together in that wisp of time; that infinitely long second etched with more emotion than is humanly possible. He is frozen, bathed in the sharp relief of the candlelight. Neither of us can possibly voice what should be said, and so he relies on the melody that waits beneath his expert fingertips, gleaming in polished black and ivory._

_And as he plays the song once more, I finally hear it. Both the miracle of the harmony and the name that falls like a reverent prayer from his lips…_

_"Christine. It is called Christine." _

I felt myself falling, tugged backwards, the roar of the blood in my ears drowning out cries that echoed distantly beside me. There was a thump as I hit the floor, another cry, and then blackness. Blackness and the Voice.


	5. Chapter 4

It struck me as a terribly melodramatic thing to do, really.

I'd never fainted in my life. I'd thought it was something reserved for swooning damsels in distress, all of whom had perfected the art of fainting brilliantly and usually did so with finesse and grace. Delicately, with a hand placed to the forehead and a gentle sigh-and a plush couch or a gentleman to catch them.

Unfortunately, the same could not have been said for me.

"She banged her head pretty hard," said a voice from somewhere above me. "Just crumpled-you should have heard the cracking sound her head made. It was like, BOOM, just like that: BOOM! Check for blood. Make sure-did you check for blood?"

"There's no blood, monsieur, if you'd please step aside-"

"CPR! I know CPR! Judy-that's my wife, I think I told you about her when you first came in, although you may not have heard me because the stretcher was rolling pretty loudly-"

"Monsieur, we need you to-"

"Judy and I took a class at the Y a few years back. But I still remember most of it: press and breathe, right? Or was…was it breathe and then press?"

"Can someone get him to-?"

"The paddles! Use the paddles! She's pale, she needs the paddles-!"

"You only use those when someone's heart's stopped, you idiot!"

"CPR, then, I swear, I remember most-"

"She's breathing! God, just shut up, she's breathing, she doesn't need CPR! Let them do their job!"

"I-she could need it! What if she needs it and we just stand here? What if-?"

"Monsieur Hertz, Mademoiselle Giry, please, we have the situation under control, but we are going to have to ask you to step aside until-"

"I'm sorry-I'm-I talk a lot when I get nervous, and I'm-I also break out in hives, and-geez, wouldn't you know it, there they are. They're not contagious, are they, you guys, because-should-should you check them out? Do I need-I think I need to lie down, too, because they're really acting up here-"

"Oh, my God! What is this?"

From deep within the headache of the century that was rapidly gaining strength behind my temples, I recognized the new voice. I suppose I recognized the others, too, but it had taken me longer to do so than usual. But I'd immediately known who the new voice belonged to, and it rang out like a gunshot in the cacophony, frantic and familiar.

"Christine!" it cried. "What happened-what-? Meg! Meg, what is this?"

"She-"

"Monsieur, this is a medical emergency and as a third party you are not allowed here. Please step aside-"

"Like hell I will! What's wrong with her? What happened?"

"Monsieur! I do not want to call the police, but if you refuse to leave, I won't hesitate to have you arrested! Step aside!"

"I'm a friend! Meg, tell him, tell him she'd want to see me-"

"He's fine! Don't arrest him, he's fine-"

FLASH.

_"Monsieur de Changy, I must ask to to leave. The young lady is presently indisposed."_

"She knows me, monsieur, we were childhood friends and I only just saw her performance-she would not object to my presence!"

"We cannot be certain of that, seeing as she is currently unable to speak for herself. You are neither a doctor nor a relative, and as such, I must insist that you…"

FLASH.

_"Mademoiselle, I am the little boy who fetched your from the sea."_

FLASH.

"She's moving! Someone do CPR!"

"She doesn't _need_CPR!"

FLASH.

_"Leave, you must! You do not know-you cannot know-how dangerous this is. Please, leave! Forget all of this and leave!"_

"Leave you to what? If there is danger, as you assure me there is, how can I leave you in its midst in good conscience? I love you!"

"Don't say it! Please, don't say it, he might hear, he always hears!"

FLASH.

"Meg, what happened? I still don't-"

"She was fine one minute, and then the next, she just…she just collapsed-"

"Oh, my God."

"We were just looking at…looking at some…stuff, and she…she just-"

FLASH.

_"Mademoiselle, I am the little boy who fetched your scarf from the sea."_

FLASH.

"You said her name is Christine?"

"Yes."

"Alright." Firm, professional hands somewhere on my arm. "Christine? I'm a medic, we're here to help. Can you hear us? I want you to wiggle your fingers if you can hear us."

FLASH.

_"-little boy who-"_

FLASH.

"Christine? It's Raoul. Wiggle your fingers, come on-can you hear us? You're going to be fine, I'm-"

FLASH.

_"-the little boy who fetched your scarf from the sea."_

"Stop," I heard myself groan, but to no avail. The images suddenly reared up and rushed past in a dizzying whirlpool, speeding through my vision like a fevered roll of film.

FLASH.

_"-the lady is presently indisposed-"  
"-from the sea-"  
"-love you!""  
"-leave, you must! You do not know-"  
"-love you!"  
"-how dangerous this is."_

FLASH.

"Stop!" I moaned. "Stop! Stop!"

"Stop what? Stop what, what's she talking-?"

FLASH.

_"-try your lies with me, you insolent girl!"_

"Please, you must know I've done nothing wrong!"

"Save your pleas! Save your excuses, save them all! He will ruin you! What does he care for your glory? What does he know of your gift? He has ensnared you with false proclamations! Adulations built upon fancy, castles of sand!"

"It is a friendship! An old, old, friendship and nothing more!"

"He desires more. He hungers for more. And he cannot have it. He will crush your desires, rob you of your destiny, keep you caged like a pretty bird and boast about his good fortune!"

"I've given him leave! I've told him to forget me! I am wholly devoted to you, you must know that! He will forget me!"

"He will not."

"He will! I promise you, he will!"

"Damn it all, he will not! He cannot. It is impossible to forget you."

FLASH.

Something was rising inside me, throbbing, threatening, panicked. My eyelids snapped open and I briefly caught sight of a blurred face framed by tousled blonde hair.

"Christine!"

The polite thing to do would have been to offer a kind, if weary, smile and a greeting. Preferably a witty one, showing my grace under pressure. The polite thing to do would have been to thank everyone for their concern.

Instead, I showed my gratitude by bolting upright, twisting to the side, and heaving violently all over Raoul's crisp blue sweater.

Nothing says "polite" like recycled breakfast.

Raoul was very kind about it all. He assured me that he'd seen worse before-his brother had a notoriously weak stomach as a kid and used to have the top bunk in their bedroom. Bad meals meant Raoul would be rained upon by secondhand shellfish in the middle of the night.

"So really, this was nothing," he'd said with a smile. "And stop worrying about the sweater. It was a bargain, anyway, so it's hardly a loss."

Somehow, that did little to reassure me. I'd seen him wear that sweater before: there was nothing remotely cheap about it, but I appreciated the effort. Really, I did.

The paramedics had been incredibly kind, as well, even when I protested as they took me to the hospital as a precaution. It was all routine, they said, an effort to make sure I didn't have a concussion or some rare underlying condition that caused me to spontaneously swoon. Because apparently, I'd swooned pretty violently. Not quite as violently as M. Hertz, though.

I'd already reached the hospital by that point, so I didn't learn about his panic attack until later, when the tale was retold by an exhausted Meg.

"His hives got pretty bad when we were waiting for you in the lobby or whatever you call it," she said as we walked through the parking lot. Raoul was fidgeting beside me as he cast worried glances my way with metronomic regularity. "He started going on about Mad Cow Disease or a flesh eating bacteria or something and then hyperventilated."

"Oh, no."

"'Oh no' is right," Meg said flatly, rubbing her eyes. "The guy at the front desk kept telling him to calm down, you know, 'it's not a flesh-eating bacteria, you're not dying, you don't need CPR, stop squealing,' but Hertz was pretty done by that point. Eyes rolled back into his head and he stumbled around for a bit before tripping over a chair and conking his head on a table edge."

"Then he fell flat on his face on the tile," Raoul added grimly, "Pretty bloody."

Unsurprisingly, that did little to liven my spirits. I gulped.

"Is he alright?"

"Sure, he's fine," Meg said. "They stitched him up and gave him some nice pain meds to keep him all doped up for the night and sent him on his way."

I stopped, frowning. "He cracked his head open and you two just let him leave by himself?"

My voice had risen in disbelief, doing little to assuage the headache that had made itself comfortable throbbing at the base of my skull. I didn't know why I was so concerned. I hardly knew the man, but somehow felt responsible for his breakdown. He was a tad on the frantic side-more than a tad, if I was being honest, but his prattling dialogue aside, he was harmless, and his friendliness had been welcome after the bookstore disaster.

"No, no, don't worry," Raoul said quickly. "His sister came to pick him up."

"He has a sister?"

"Obviously," Meg snapped. I knew she would never admit it, but the day's events had taken a toll on her. She, like her mother, had never been one to openly submit to worrying, but I'd seen the panic flash behind her eyes, and I was touched, in between feeling enormous bouts of guilt for all the strife I'd caused.

Meg, however, was just irritable.

"You'd think we would have known about mystery sister, considering the guy told us everything else about his stupid life, but no, forget it, he's too busy head butting chairs to mention it," she continued, the color in her cheeks evident even in the dim glow of the street lamps. "And you know what? The sister's just as annoying! God, just what I needed, to sit in the waiting room with two of them, listening to him go on about how he had to have stitches before when he was a kid after he was gored by a deer, and listening to her go on about how she pulled the antlers out. Too bad they didn't stitch his mouth up, the stupid…"

Meg continued to mutter most of the way to the metro, and though she squeezed my hand and assured me that she was relieved I hadn't "spilled any brains," she was clearly not in a comforting mood. I didn't hold it against her. Stress always turned her into a blonde nightmare, and she either took to dealing out sucker punches or falling asleep to remedy the onslaught of overwhelming crankiness. Thankfully, this time, she chose to conk out on the ride home, her head lolling onto Raoul's shoulder and bobbing up and down as the train rattled over the tracks. Anyone else would have at least scowled at a sudden onslaught of drool dripping on their sleeve, but Raoul just chuckled and flashed a crooked smile.

"Vomit and drool in one day, huh? Next time you and Miss Personality here decide to ruin two of my sweaters in the span of a few hours, give me a heads up. I'll bring my hazmat suit. "

"Raoul, I am so sorry-" I started, biting my lip, but he just laughed, waving one hand dismissively.

"Christine, I'm joking. Really. Probably not the best time for jokes, anyway, after such an interesting day."

"'Interesting' isn't exactly the word I'd go for," I said dryly. Remorse welled up in my stomach, and it took a surprising amount of courage to look him in the eye. "Honestly, I am so sorry. You shouldn't have had to deal with all that, especially since you just got home, and I…what a way to ruin a homecoming."

Raoul was of the navy breed, like his father and grandfather and so-on before him. Having just completed a seven-month world tour, he'd decided to touch down in Paris for a while, finish up his degree (business and economics, courtesy of the navy), and wait until active duty called once more. He'd always loved sailing, even when we were kids, and the mammoth vessels he'd just spent half a year on had infused him with an impenetrable sort of glow, a happiness that bordered on childlike glee. He was at home on the ocean, and the ocean seemed to embrace him in return-in more ways than one. Raoul was in terrific shape, honed by heavy lifting and incessant physical fitness training. His skin had been bronzed by months beneath the sun's glow, setting the crispness of his light blue eyes and the whiteness of his teeth-flashing beneath that crooked grin-into even higher relief. His sun-bleached hair was cropped shorter than he preferred due to navy regulations, but showing tell-tale signs that it was more than ready to grow to back down his shoulders and fall into his face with its customary casual elegance.

In fact, in all the fuss of the afternoon, I hadn't had a chance to really take in his appearance. Of course, Raoul was still in there, the perennially ten-year-old, goofy, gangly, self-deprecating Raoul, but it was as if someone had turned a knob that had magnified his charm tenfold.

And it suddenly struck me how handsome he looked. Devastatingly handsome, actually.

Which, of course, made my pallid, minced, rather frazzled appearance all the more pathetic. I was still trembling slightly and coated with a lovely sheen of sweat that only served to frizz my hair further into curl cacophony. And I had ruined his sweater.

Life just kept getting better and better.

As usual, Raoul brushed off my apologies and fixed me with an expression that was so genuinely caring, I was almost able to push my mortification and nagging nausea aside.

Almost.

"Don't apologize," he said earnestly, "Please don't apologize. There's nothing to apologize for, Chris, you couldn't help 're exhausted, you're overworked, the flu's going around…I wouldn't be surprised if your immune system had just had it and enacted its revenge. It's not like you fainted on purpose." The sincerity in his eyes suddenly faded and was replaced by that all-too-familiar twinkle. "Although, if you have perfected the art of fainting on cue, it would be perfect for that 'Welcome Home' thing my mom is having. I'm thinking right in the middle of 80s karaoke, you can conk out on the h'ors d'oeuvres and spare us all from watching Dad gyrate to _Addicted To Love_."

"Again," I added, managing a smile.

"Again. Man, you'd think the fact that he threw out his hip last time would be enough to put the brakes on karaoke, but I guess not. Ah, well. As long as he forgoes the leather this time, I'll let it slide."

We laughed, quietly, so as not to disturb a now snoring Meg or the other passengers. But in that brief moment, I forgot my untamable hair and Raoul's horrible, vomit-stained homecoming and my throbbing head and the ruined store. Sitting side by side on the hard plastic seats beneath the sterile florescent glow of the overhead lights, Raoul and I were problem-free once more, five years old in Perros, splashing and cracking up in the waves. Eight years old, listening to a fiddler play wildly by the campfire on the beach, pausing only to make faces or tell terrible jokes that never failed to fall flat and embarrass his daughter. For whatever reason, Raoul had the unique ability to make me forget negativity, to forget the grief and loneliness that echoed loss. We chatted pleasantly for the next few minutes, eager to be away from the hospital and health scares. We talked school and traveling and Meg's right hook until the looming memory of a score etched in red ink had been reduced to a small blot at the back of my mind, tucked aside, forgotten.

Until Raoul innocently tossed it into the conversation.

"Hey, Meg mentioned something about some sheet music you were looking at before you passed out?" His elbows rested on his knees, fingers loosely laced and hanging limply over his worn tennis shoes. He had settled into another easy smile, a joke on the tip of his tongue as he surveyed me with mock seriousness, oblivious. "What was it, the world's worst set of lyrics? Neil Diamond, am I right? What was that one…? _'I am, I said!_'"

The casual remark was like the abrupt yelp of a gunshot, and shattered the fragile pieces of normalcy I'd hastily built in disaster's aftermath. The rushing in my ears threatened to gain momentum, but I fought with nonexistent energy to keep chaos at bay.

What did he say? Neil Diamond? That was funny. It was funny, wasn't-?

_I am the little boy who fetched your scarf from the-_

No._ No. _

"Ha ha ha," I managed. It was a pitiful attempt at lightheartedness, sounding more like metal grinding against metal than a carefree chuckle. I gulped, wiping my slick palms on my jeans in a sort of desperate stupor. _Please, no, not again, not here, please-_

"Alright, bad joke, I get it," Raoul said, thankfully mistaking the hollow laugh for sarcasm. "Unfortunately for you, there's more where that came from."

"Lucky me." The lights flickered as the train rolled forward and over a bump on the tracks, jolting us in our seats and causing Meg to grunt loudly before she resumed snoring with a vengeance. I prayed fervently for a change of subject, for a distraction, for anything that would stop Raoul from asking a seemingly harmless question that was weighted down with something so sinister, I could barely wrap my mind around it.

I knew, however, that hope was futile. Raoul had every right to know the truth, but even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't give it to him.

I had no idea what the truth_ was. _

"…boxes he brought in?" he was saying.

I stared at him blankly for several seconds before clearing my throat and letting out a squeaky, "Sorry, what?"

Raoul's brows knit together, and once again, concerned flared into his expression. "I just wanted to know if the sheet music was from one of the boxes M. Hertz brought in."

"Yeah," I said a little too quickly, "Yeah, I mean…I mean yes, it was. In one…one of the boxes."

I could feel Raoul's eyes studying me carefully, worriedly. He drew in a breath and asked, "Are you-?"

"Fine. Really, I promise, I'm fine." Lies, lies, lies.

_He has ensnared you with false-_

_NO._

"Sorry," I offered weakly. My heart was beating so ferociously it threatened to shatter my ribcage. _Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it. Just ignore it._"I'm kind of dazed still, I suppose. I…what…what were you saying?"

"The sheet music…? You know what? It doesn't matter, Christine, never mind, really, it's-"

"It's fine." Ludicrous. Oh, I was a horrible lier. It wasn't fine. It was as far from "fine" as anything could be. "Yes, it was some sort of…um, score in one of the-one of the boxes he brought in-remember how he said he had a bunch of…a bunch of-?"

"Libr-"

"Librettos, yes!" I sounded almost hysterical. But I couldn't stop. I ached for normalcy. I ached to pretend that this had all been some sort of bizarre occurrence, a freak accident, nothing more. I was tired, that was all. Tired. Fine, everything was fine, normal. "Anyway, it was one of the old librettos he'd purchased at auction. I can't even remember what it was, really-" Lies! "-because by that point I was just sort of…"

"Out?"

"Out. Yes. Out. I think you're right. I think I'm either coming down with something or I just need-"

"The longest nap ever?"

"Yes!" I laughed, again with a slight edge of hysteria, but one that was tinged with relief. He'd bought it. He'd bought it, he'd dismissed it, and all was forgotten.

"You'd better hurry up with that nap, then," he said, jerking a thumb to the mass of snoring blonde hair fanned out over his arm. "This one's already got a head start."

My chuckle this time was more genuine. My muscles relaxed bit by bit as the minutes passed and I felt the warm, gentle pressure of Raoul's hand on my shoulder.

"I'm glad you're okay," he said softly. The pristine blue of his eyes held mine for a moment, intensely and touchingly sincere. And I was safe. No echoing, feverish proclamations, no dizzying…but what were they? What was this? Visions, memories? Dreams from childhood, but more. Never like this, never this vivid, never this...

A score etched in red, burning beneath my fingertips.

1881.

_Ignore it. Forget it. Forget it, it's nothing._

But even then, I knew that such a boldfaced lie would reveal itself in due time. Even then, I knew that the truth lurked near, biding its time, curled like a serpent in dusty boxes and atop parchment that lay discarded upon a wooden floor. Sealed behind walls, pressed between time-withered pages. Floating in the distant fog of memories and dreams. Even then, I knew the truth was inescapable.

I did not care to know the truth.

* * *

"What are you saying?"

Silence. Heavy and foreboding, like the baritone of a bell tower ringing through a churchyard. The feeble response wavered across the table.

"Merely that the institution did what it felt was best at the time for all parties involved, Monsieur."

"_'The institution?'_Do not attempt to remove yourself from this, Bertrand, any of you, do not attempt to separate yourselves from the reality of the situation! My God, I cannot believe-"

"Now just a minute, just a minute!" A different voice this time, deeper, older, infused with more authority. "It's hardly his fault, he wasn't even here when the decision was made-"

"I was in school in Romania!"

"He was in school in Romania! You can hardly blame Bertrand for this! He is-we are taking the necessary precautions to ensure that everyone involved, including the patient, benefits accordingly."

"Romania be damned, I don't care if he was in Cancun, Massachusetts, or Taiwan! This is the 21st century, not some medieval hell hole!"

"Doctor, if you just familiarize yourself with the patient's file, you will understand why-"

"Yes, let's talk about that file. Smashing idea, let's talk about that file. You know what's in that file? Answer me!"

"I thought it was a rhetorical-"

"I'll tell you what's in that file: a whole lot of nothing!"

"That is absolutely false. We've documented everything since his arrival-"

"Twenty-two years! Twenty-two years, and you mean to tell me you haven't found a scrap of information? Nothing?"

"We've searched-"

"But you gave up. You gave up, didn't you, Poirot? Which is just grand, if you ask me, really an ideal characteristic for a man of your profession: a doctor who gives up on patients."

"There was nothing! Absolutely nothing! And by God, I wasn't here either when the initial investigation took place! Do not pin this on me, desMarais! What is done is done! This is an extremely reputable institution! It is our duty to make sure that the patients here are afforded the utmost care and safety, and we will go to any means necessary to prevent further altercations!"

"I do wonder what the Board will think of your preventative measures when I inform them of your treatment of this man. See how your _reputable institution_fares after that!"

"See how_ you _fare after this: the Board approved our measures!"

DesMarais paused for a beat. Then, "I cannot believe that."

"It's in the file."

"Well, that would be one thing that actually_ is_included in that file, then!"

"Actually, there are a few other things included in his file, such as his physical condition upon arrival-"

"Shut up, Bertrand!" Poirot barked. Then, to DesMarias, "Come, now, man, see reason! We can't put anyone's life in jeopardy here simply because you haven't familiarized yourself with the…uniqueness of the situation."

"As if I haven't tried! You people have reached an unparalleled level of incompetence that any sane man would see as grounds for immediate dismissal! Now I don't know what you told the board in order to convince them to push through with your medieval methods, but your days of tyranny-"

"Is the melodrama really necess-?"

"YOUR DAYS OF TYRANNY," DesMarais bellowed, "are over! An entire floor for one patient! Holing him up like a damned leper in Biblical Jerusalem, well, I won't have it! I won't!" A tense pause before, "This meeting is adjourned."

"It can't be adjourned, we haven't covered half of-"

"I am in charge, Poirot, and the meeting is adjourned. Who is his charge nurse?"

Silence. The eyes in the anxious faces hovering over the long table darted from one end of the room to another, as if searching for a life raft aboard a sinking ship. Foreboding hung heavily in the air.

"Who is his charge nurse? Bertrand!"

"Yes?"

"Who. Is. His. Charge. NURSE?"

"It's in the file, Monsieur."

"Nothing of any use is in that file, Bertrand, and i's going in the bin along with your job if you do not answer my question immediately."

"I-that would be-Madame Valerius."

"And where is this Madame Valerius?"

"I don't…I'm not absolutely certain where she is at the moment."

"Then you'd do well to find her, wouldn't you? Because I am inspecting the conditions of room 3327 in ten minutes, and I expect some answers, and if she cannot provide them, I will find someone who can-regardless of how many of you I have to dismiss."

"You won't find answers." Poirot spat in furious exasperation. DesMarais fixed him with a hard, steely glare.

"Oh, believe me, my friend, I intend to."


	6. Chapter 5

Antoinette gave me an indefinite amount of time off. Or, more accurately, demanded that I stay in bed until I caught up on years worth of missed sleep, and so help her, if I so much as stepped within fifty meters of the storefront, she would have Meg and Raoul forcibly remove me from the premises and strap me to that bed.

"I mean it," she said with extraordinary firmness. Her already thin mouth narrowed to near invisibility and her sharp brows arched in an austere warning. "No more of this, Christine. You're working too hard-too, too hard, and it's taking its toll."

Even I didn't believe my automatic, hollow assurance that I was perfectly fine.

"Of course you're not, don't try that with me," Antoinette snapped. I sighed, running a hand through my errant curls and then wincing as the gesture sent a spark of pain shooting through my still smarting head.

She must have noticed, because her tone softened considerably. She placed a gentle hand on my shoulder and squeezed lightly. "You're making yourself ill with all this work. Give yourself time to rest. I can't sit and watch you exhaust yourself."

I couldn't very well tell her that the source of my exhaustion had absolutely nothing to do with my admittedly chaotic schedule. The mere thought of that score, yellowed, burning, alive…It was enough to send me reeling once more, never mind discussing it with someone else. Particularly if that someone else was the viciously skeptical Antoinette. I couldn't bare to think of what would happen if I went near that score again.

Fortunately, in the days following the incident in the bookstore, I didn't do much thinking. I didn't do much of anything at all. I had never slept so much in my life. It was the sleep of the dead, a slumber so heavy and so deep that waking up to use the restroom or shuffle off to the kitchen for a glass of water was a herculean effort. I was vaguely aware of Meg and her mother flitting in and out of my apartment on several occasions urging me to eat the various home-cooked meals they'd left in the refrigerator. I'm fairly certain I did, although I only had vague recollections of myself shoveling down the odd muffin or meatball (Swedish meatballs, of course, left with a note from Meg that read, "Get it? Ha, ha.").

I showered perhaps twice the entire time, which under ordinary circumstances would have been unfortunate for my nostrils, but I was so bogged down by exhaustion that I hardly noticed. I just slept-on and on and on, woven into the sheets and stone still.

For the first few days, it was a blessedly dreamless sleep, silent and soft. I would wake up refreshed, a strange sensation given that I'd been running on empty for months.

The peace didn't last.

They were faint at first, just glimmers of color, distant clippings of sound, nothing more. Yet in time they grew louder, stronger, more vivid. Some were familiar, the same dreams (_memories!_something insisted, although they couldn't be memories, not my own) I'd been having since I was I child. And whenever they drifted through my mind, I felt like a child once more, ten years old and sitting in my father's lap as we read a newspaper article about a skeleton in the cellars. Ten years old and baffled by visions of a reality too foreign for the present and yet too sharp to be fabrications.

There were three specifically that I knew by rote, as if they had been mechanically drummed into me like Shakespearean lines in an English class.

The first had caused me to awaken with a jolt in the early hours of the morning shortly after the article about the skeleton had been published. I'd cried out for Dad, half asleep and yet alert enough to know that something beyond a ten-year-old's imagination was at work. I hadn't said as much to him-instead I offered the safe explanation: "It was a nightmare, Daddy."

He'd _shh-ed_and rubbed by back as he curled beside me, drawing me close and kissing my wild hair.

"But that's all it was," he'd said, "Just a nightmare. It wasn't real, it was just a nightmare."

Yet oddly enough, it hadn't been a nightmare; at least, not in a monster-under-the-bed way. It had certainly startled me, frightened me a little, if only for its strangeness, its otherworldly quality. It was the first time I'd ever had such a…dream, one that didn't feel like a dream at all, but something remembered, something I knew, with a pall in my heart, had been true.

I'd been there.

There was never sound in that first vision. There was light, a very soft, very warm, glowing light to my left, flickering from what I assumed to be several candles or a small fire in the hearth. I was standing in a small room with a paneled wooden ceiling, although I never actually saw the ceiling. I simply knew, with that matter-of-fact, cemented certainty, that the ceiling was paneled. A dark wood, the same that lay beneath the intricate floral rug at my feet. The wallpaper was floral, too, peppered with muted burgundy, pink, and ivory roses that were just barely visible in the candlelight. There was a screen to the far right of the room, an old-fashioned one like something over which Scarlett O' Hara might have dismissively tossed her petticoats as she changed into another gown. It was decorated with scenes from the Orient, swirling with pictures of elegant geishas whose painted eyes seemed to follow me as they sauntered through their gardens of cherry blossoms.

There was a table in front of me, cream-colored and flounced and utterly feminine. There was a matching chair, over which was draped a white dressing gown. It felt like silk, and, again, though I couldn't see it, I knew there was a slight tear in the side seaming just below the lace bodice. The material was bathed in a yellow glow, puckered beneath a hand that wound tightly around it.

My hand.

That was all. Nothing nightmarish, nothing at all, but to me, it was so disorienting, so baffling, and so, so completely real that I could think of nothing more frightening in the world. That was not my room, and yet it was. I had never seen that wallpaper before, and yet I knew it with a grave sort of familiarity. Those geishas emerging from the darkness like sylphs were simultaneously strangers and old friends. I had never seen that screen before, but it was mine, and I had, I absolutely _had,_stepped behind it and changed in and out of that white silk dressing gown with the tear in the bodice.

I had wrapped my hand around that gown before as it lay draped over the chair. The hand was undoubtedly, undeniably my own. I felt its weight, the bones curling over the wood, its blood pulsing through too-pale fingers. Over and over, night after night, those fingers would clutch that dressing gown as if responding to some sort of call, a sound, an abrupt noise. But I could never hear that sound in the first dream.

I could hear it in the second.

The second one was was much like the first, though it wasn't in the wallpapered room with the low, paneled wood ceilings. This room was high-ceilinged, sprawling and bursting to the seams with everything imaginable: books in endless piles, stacks of weathered paper, strange, mechanical devices that whirred and ticked and sputtered, and I couldn't make heads or tails of them. There were paintings, many unframed, that leaned against the walls or hung high above me, masterpieces that looked museum-worthy and half-finished sketches that were as indecipherable as the machines. There were instruments, too, that, like the paintings seemed to be in various stages of completion: a violin that appeared to have been cross-sectioned, perched against a can dripping with a pungent-smelling finish, a flute and a battered clarinet, the mouth of a French horn that gleamed brazenly beneath the light of the overhead chandeliers, a concert grand piano, what would soon be a beautiful one, I knew, but one without its top.

It was the piano I stood in front of this time, not a desk. As if from a great distance, I watched my hand brush cautiously over the newly-polished ivory keys, the intricate inner workings, the pedals that were stacked, one, two, three atop one another beside the right front leg, waiting to spring into place.

And then my hand would clutch the edge of the piano, like it had clutched the chair in the wallpapered room-startled, fearful, eager all at once. This time, I knew the source of my surprise. I knew the voice that interrupted my reverie.

It was, without a doubt, the loveliest sound I had ever heard.

It said my name. Just my name, but more, so much more than just my name. The voice belonged to a man, and it was deep, rich, resonant, melodious, infinitely more pleasant and perfect that anything anyone could have imagined. And it had said my name, my ordinary, unassuming name with such a reverent tenderness that I could feel my eyelids droop as I let out a sigh of surrender.

I could always feel the man approaching me from behind, but it wasn't a threatening feeling. I knew he was going to talk about the piano, answer my hollow, stupid questions and I knew I wouldn't hear a word he said because all I cared for was to hear that voice. That was all I ever cared about when the man spoke.

He would come closer, his silent footsteps disquieting, but his presence radiating safety. He grew closer, close enough to reach out and touch the small of my back, and I knew he would, he would, and he would say my name again-

Everything always cut off abruptly after that.

"Maddening" wouldn't begin to describe it. Whenever I awoke after that dream, inevitably, I found myself grinding my teeth in frustration. Because I knew I shouldn't have been indulging in the vivid fantasy, but at the same time, I couldn't bear its interruption. And I felt as if I'd completely abandoned my senses, and I should have been worried; I should have been concerned that I was so perilously detached form reality. But God, I relished that voice. I longed for it. And it was such a paradox, so baffling in its duality: transient in its unearthliness yet still solid, substantial, vibrantly and so clearly _there. _

I was older when I'd first heard the man's voice in that second dream, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. Old enough to know the implications of the unsettling emotions it roused. I couldn't understand it, didn't want to understand it, but over and over again, I found myself thinking of that strange room with the half-built piano and the faceless voice that swirled hazily in my mind and enveloped me in a drowsy numbness. But it wasn't an unpleasant numbness. I should have been disgusted with myself, I really should have. There I was on the cusp of womanhood, perfectly capable of reasoned thought, and instead of rationalizing the voice and chalking it up as a reaction to a bad bout of clams, maybe, or some sort of subconscious recollection of a scene from a movie I'd seen as a child, I regarded it with a wary sort of fascination. It was like forbidden fruit. I shouldn't have wanted to taste it, but I did. And whenever I did, my anxiety increased. Because I knew if I let it, that voice would completely rob me of my senses and ensnare me in its dream world. Or nightmare world.

That was what the third dream was, a nightmare in every sense of the word. In that flitting vision, memory, whatever it was, there was nothing but anguish and sorrow and fury so raw and feral that it was as if it had shot up from the bowels of hell. It was the same voice, the man's voice, but so changed, so incredibly and terribly altered by an onslaught of merciless emotion, that it could have been a different voice entirely.

I was crying, always crying in that third dream, and I supposed that was why I could hardly see a thing. Hot tears reduced everything to strokes of blurred color, and even then, I felt my eyelids squeeze shut as if I didn't want to see whatever it was that raged before me. My frantic gasps would mingle with those horrible screams, and I saw a blur of color, felt a whoosh of air as if something was moving rapidly in front of me, and every once in a while, the man's screaming would be intelligible. And though I only caught bits of his wild curses, there was always one phrase that stood out sharply, as if someone had turned up the volume on a radio.

_"…bound to me! And you have done it yourself-we are bound irrevocably now, and this will never leave you! Are you satisfied? It will never leave you! You are bound to me!"_

I knew it was true.

Whatever it was, whatever it meant, I knew it was true. All of it. The first vision with the dressing gown. The second one with the half-built instruments and the voice. The third, in all of that voice's wickedness and sorrow. And the new ones, the ones that sprung to life as soon as I'd touched that score. I was bound to it, to those sounds and images and feelings that were not and yet _were _my own. And that certainty was nauseating, like watching a horror film only to realize that the ghosts onscreen were sitting calmly and resolutely beside you.

It always left me in a panic, gasping awake with bullets of sweat on my brow and tears running hot and fevered down my cheeks. This world, these images that draped over my consciousness like sheets covered in decades' worth of dust-wavering yet sharply in focus, imagined and yet wholly real-were not going anywhere. Something had changed. Something was building. I felt it to my very core, and it made me ill.

Tried as I might, no amount of sleep could rid me of the memory of that score in the bookstore and the voices it had heralded. While the first few nights after the hospital release had been blissfully peaceful, the other nights, the rest of them, were wrought with those dusty sheets of images, old and new, more determined to wreak havoc than ever before. More determined to imprint the sound of that Voice onto my soul and bind it to my own.

And so it was that I spent my would-be weeks of recuperation trying to convince myself that I wasn't losing my marbles.

And failing miserably.

After all, hearing voices doesn't really do much to bolster an image of sanity.

* * *

She felt it.

I knew. She felt it. _I _felt it.

The rain was still ceaseless. I could not see it-could scarcely hear it-but I knew it remained, dogged, persistent, pounding upon the casements and the rooftops in sheets. They spoke of it with misery laced in their voices and exasperation etched upon their brows, but how little they knew, for it was as if sheets of gold rained upon the earth and should I lift a finger, I would be awash in it at last.

The rain was still ceaseless, and she felt its icy fingers in her soul.

Was it a cold sort of clarity for her, as well? Or an aching sort of dread as it had been?

Did it twist and maim and mangle? Would it?

No. No, fie the thought. No more.

It was querulous. Wavering, quivering, but unflinchingly formidable. Dangerous?

Perhaps she thought so.

I did not.

Then perhaps that was my folly. Perhaps I would have done well to languish, to wither and so die. I daresay I could have. I could have simply…released myself. Peace, he would say in that maddeningly calm way. Let there be peace.

But there wouldn't be peace. There would never be peace. He knew it, I knew it. I would venture a guess to say that even _they_knew it. There would never be peace unless someone actively sought it. And seek it, I would.

Something was stirring. It was ready. I was ready. Was she?

I was ready. It was a matter of waiting, that was all. And blessedly, I would wait no more.

I would let them play their little game, of course, if only for a memorable send-off. There was no stopping it, in any case. I could hear them, after all, pounding up the stairs, their chatter growing strangled as they approached the door. The woman's was at the forefront.

"…haven't had proper notice, and he isn't-"

"I'm giving you notice now, Madame. Stand aside."

A new one, was it? Never mind, never mind; he would leave as vexed as the last.

"At least let me prepare him! This is ridiculous, I've never-"

"Well, you're about to, Madame. Stand. Aside."

I heard her sigh. The familiar beeping. Whirring. Mechanical clicking. A whoosh, a click, and then in they strode, a whole horde of them, pigs led to slaughter, and at the front of the group stood a man so puffed up with his own importance it was a wonder he didn't burst.

Unwarranted egotism aside, he was almost comically unremarkable. He was of average height, average build, and wore an average rumpled suit beneath a rumpled white physician's coat. His thinning hair was a nondescript mingling of gray and brown, combed in parallels across his gleaming scalp. Spectacles perched atop his pockmarked, slightly bulbous nose which twitched in indignation, nostrils flared above several weeks' worth of stubble. He bristled, utterly unremarkable. Steadfast in his determination to extract an answer.

He would not play me for a fool.

"Dr. DesMarais, I cannot allow this," the woman was saying hurriedly, irritably. "I don't care what your credentials-"

"You should care," DesMarais replied curtly. "They give me leave to dismiss you."

She blushed violent red, though from embarrassment or fury, it was not clear. The man wasted no time.

"Name?"

"I-"

"Your name, Madame. Now."

"Edda Valerius. Monsieur, this is not-"

"Valerius, then. You're the charge nurse?"

"Yes, I-"

"The patient's?"

"Yes, but-"

"So I can reasonably assume that you, being his caretaker, would be able to answer some of my questions?"

"I can only answer what I know-"

"Mmm. Then answer this: what is _that?_"

"Wh-?"

"You know perfectly well what I'm referring to."

"Oh. That."

"That."

"We…we don't remove it."

"You don't remove it," he said slowly, mockingly.

"That's what I said." Her defiance was feeble, but indisputably there. She was ruffled. Exhausted, through with it all, yet she would not tolerate such an imposition. I could have been proud of her. "We don't remove it."

A muscle twitched in DesMarais' temple. The crowd behind him looked on expectantly, skittishly.

"Why?" he demanded.

"Surely they've told you why?" She looked at her colleagues as if betrayed.

One of them came to her rescue. He was reedy and pinched, his mouth permanently pursed in disapproval, though disapproval directed not toward the woman-to whom he offered a clipped, apologetic smile-but toward DesMarais.

"We _have_told him why, Edda, he just refuses to listen."

"I'll tell you why I refuse to listen, Poirot: your explanation is rubbish. Absolute rubbish!" DesMarais spat. "'No information on file.' What the hell is that supposed to-?"

"It means what it means!" Poirot exclaimed incredulously, throwing his hands in the air. "Good God, man, this is is not a conspiracy against you-"

"Lower your voices, please!" the woman begged, casting a frantic glance my way. Somewhere in the recesses of what little sense and propriety I still possessed, I suppose I appreciated her gesture. "You may upset him-"

"There is no upsetting this man, Madame, and I will tell you why," DesMarais barked, not bothering, naturally, to lower his voice. "If you won't give me any damn answers, then I'll supply them for you. You want to know why we won't upset this man? I'll tell you why we won't upset this man. He's beyond help. Notebook."

Silence. Those assembled exchanged baffled looks. DesMarais inhaled sharply, furiously.

"Notebook! Now! One of you, take notes; you say he hasn't got a file, then by God, we're going to make him one right now. I dictate. Bertrand, you transcribe. _Allez, vite!"_

"But Monsieur," said a dull-looking twenty-something near the door. "He does have a file; we didn't say he didn't have a file, we just said his history is unknown-"

"We're making it known right now, then. We're starting anew." He gestured sharply to himself. "New management, new rules, new history. Organization is clearly foreign to you all, and I am not about to run this institution equipped with an incompetent staff. We begin anew now. Bertrand!"

"Ah-y-yes, yes what?"

"Notebook. Get one out. I dictate, you transcribe."

"Monsieur, I can't-"

"If you can't, I won't hesitate to replace you with someone who can. That goes for the lot of you." He turned to Bertrand. "Notes. Now."

The boy looked around desperately.

"Anyone have-?"

"I do, here," someone toward the back of the crowd said, offering him a writing pad and a pen.

DesMarais' voice drowned out the sudden rustling of papers and mutinous muttering.

"Now. I shall tell you all why our conversation is not upsetting this man: he is beyond help." He cleared his throat, clenched and unclenched his fist, and gestured to the bed as if lecturing at a university forum. "Note number one: patient in persistent vegetative state, unresponsive to stimuli. Subnote: likely contributor inadequate care-"

"How dare you even suggest-!" Mme. Valerius began, but her anger went unaddressed.

"LIKELY CONTRIBUTOR…inadequate rehabilitative care. Note two: severe cachexia indicative of prolonged nutritional deficiencies. Subnote: evident lack of physical stimuli and regenerative therapies suggested by muscle atrophy-"

"This is not our doing!" Poirot snapped. "I tell you, DesMarais, this is not our doing! We had no hand in this, in him, we told you! And so help me-"

"-muscle atrophy resulting from twenty years-twenty, do you have that, Bertrand?"

"No, no, hold it, you're going too fa-"

"Twenty years of immobility-!"

"So help me, DesMarais," said Poirot between his teeth, "if you press on, the blood is on your hands and yours alone-"

"_My_hands?" he cried, a purple vein pulsating in his temple. Angry not due to the situation, but due to the fact that he sensed control slipping away. So great was his stupidity that I nearly sympathized with the others-nearly being the operative word. For his predecessors had been just as dense, just as smugly, fatally foolish. I had seen it all before. Endlessly.

And my God, had the routine had worn thin.

"My hands?" he was saying incredulously. "You are all responsible for this-this-mon Dieu, are you all that thick? Can you really all be that thick?"

Somewhere in the rotted recesses of my mind, I knew the irony of the statement was delicious.

"Look at this man!" And he strode over to the bed, thrusting one arm toward its silent occupant. "There is no conceivable way you can all stand there and reasonably tell me that his condition isn't grounds for immediate investigation-immediate closure of this damned facility! The man's near death! And you've let it happen! Do your oaths as caretakers mean nothing? He needs urgent medical assistance! Assistance his family entrusts you to provide him with-"

"He hasn't got a family!" cried Poirot with no small amount of desperation. "You idiot, we've told you, he hasn't got a family, he hasn't got a past! For all we know, he doesn't exist!"

"And so you stand by and idly let him rot? That's the way to do it, isn't it? Let him starve and sink into oblivion-make a spectacle of him by putting that-that thing over his fa-"

"He came to us that way, Doctor, please," Mme. Valerius said, dislodging her bifocals as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Please, you must understand, it's essential that you understand. He came to us as we've told you, wearing it, raving-and when we tried to remove it-"

"We told you what happened when we tried," Poirot said, looking quite ready to strike DesMarias. "You've heard the stories-"

"Poppycock, all of them, meant to play into your medieval fantasies," the doctor said immediately, as if that settled the matter. "Meant to keep this poor man suffering. You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say sadism was contagious, the way you all feed off of each other, strapping him to the bed like an animal, starving him-"

Poirot turned to Mme. Valerius, his jaw clenched. He cracked a small, apologetic smile.

"Edda, I'm sorry about this," he said. DesMarais continued to drone on, unaware of the other conversation taking place beside him. "I know you've done your best with him, and if he doesn't understand that, then f-"

"Thank you, Doctor Poirot, I appreciate that," she said quickly. "He'll understand soon, it's only a matter of-Monsieur, no!"

A ripple ran through the crowd as they turned collectively to look at the woman, who had suddenly reached toward DesMarais in terror. And when they saw what he was about to do, panic erupted: there were gasps, curses, mad scrambles for the door. All the while, the doctor pressed forward.

He'd advanced to the bed, looming above me, draped with a curtain of false superiority, his mouth twisted in a mawkish smile. And he said, as if he supposed I could hear him-more irony, come to think of it-"You're going to be well-taken care of from now on. We're going to get you help, you understand?"

"No, DesMarais, get away from-!"

"Shut up, Poirot! I've had it! I've had enough of this disgusting display! The man is in pain, unable to fend for himself, unable to understand why all this is happening-"

Oh, ho!

"-and you turn him into a sideshow spectacle! A mask! A mask! This isn't a carnival, you raving idiots! This man is a victim! He is ill! And you treat him like-"

_"What are you doing?"_Mme. Valerius cried, suddenly frantic. "Stop! Stop! Don't touch it, please, Dr. DesMarais, don't-!"

"Shut up! Shut up! As of this afternoon, I am launching a full investigation into the workings of this institution and if I have any say in it, you'll all be out the door faster than you can say-"

"STOP!"

They'd all said it at once, comically in sync, and yet it was too late.

His hand had descended on the mask as he'd been talking, absentmindedly beginning to pry it off and clearly not expecting any response from its wearer. I was near death, wasn't I for all intents and purposes?

_Was._Had been. Suddenly, something rich, vibrant, strong poured into my veins, coursing through my limbs, rattling me to the bones for the first time in what felt like an eternity. And I inhaled deeply, growing alert, aware…alive. I felt my heart rearing up to nudge into my ribcage, long-frozen blood rushing to fill the void, a roaring in my ears-and a vision, sublime, simultaneously great and terrible for what it would provoke swam before my eyes, filmy yet gloriously vibrant.

Her.

I felt her. Alive, breathing, here. Now. And close. She was close.

I was ready.

My hand shot up of its own accord, wrapping around the doctor's wrist in a viselike grip, prying it away from the mask and wrenching him upwards, slamming him against the wall. I was up before I realized it, not quite standing, not quite floating.

The roaring in my ears was drowning out the panicked screams behind me. I vaguely registered hands attempting to subdue me, tugging and pulling and punching, but to no avail. I might as well have been a ghost.

Ah!

More irony.

The doctor's face was steadily turning blue beneath my chokehold. Vaguely, disinterestedly, I registered I would do well to lessen the grip. He gasped frantically when I did, wasting precious air to plead.

"Stop, please!" His voice was a faint rasp, injured, I realized with that same sense of disinterest, from being nearly strangled. "Please! Stop! It's-okay-we're-t-trying to-"

Enough.

There was a flash of light, a bang, screams.

Silence.

I stood fully then, heaving, trembling. Suddenly feeble.

But whole.

I was whole.

I made my way to the door. I had nearly reached it when I grew aware of _his_presence.

"Oh, my God…" I heard him say. "No…what…What did you do?"

Slowly, I turned. His back was hunched, his eyes wide. His unspoken thought boomed through the room like a canon.

_Not again. No, no, not again!_

"Do not follow me," I told him simply.

And I was gone.


	7. Chapter 6

"He wants to marry her."

"_No!"_

Raoul rolled his eyes before taking a swig of cola.

"Yes. I'm not even kidding."

"You'd better be kidding."

"I'm not. Wish I was." He sighed, shaking his head and staring at the television blankly. "I don't get it. I just don't get it. Philippe's not an idiot-at least, I didn't think he was. He's usually the _boring _one. Mr. Sensible, right?"

"Maybe it's some sort of phase," I suggested, pulling the blanket more tightly around my shoulders. Raoul shook his head again.

"I don't think so. The guy doesn't shut up about her. It's always 'Alessia said this' or 'Alessia thinks that.' God, Christine, you have no idea how irritating it is. 'You should have heard what Alessia said about the managers. Alessia's hilarious! Alessia's so talented.'" He screwed up his face and started to coo in a mocking falsetto, though why, I hadn't a clue; Philippe had a smooth baritone. "A_lessia's so sexy! Ooh! Alessia's hips don't lie! Alessia's a goddess!"_

"Alessia's an airhead," I said frankly.

Raoul spread his hands incredulously.

"Exactly!"

"She thought Bulgaria was a body part."

Raoul groaned and ran his hands through his hair. "What should I do? I can't just sit by and let my brother marry that bimbo. I mean, it's obvious that the only reason he's with her is because of the s-"

"Have you talked to him about it?" I asked quickly.

"Why would I talk to him about the s-?"

"Not about that, about marrying her."

"Oh. Yeah, yeah, of course I have."

"He isn't budging?"

"No. I guess stubbornness is his new thing." He took another drink of cola, almost out of frustration, and clanked the bottle down loudly on the side table. "I just don't get it. I told him that he was being an idiot-that he was going to _marry _an idiot-but he pulled the whole, 'don't be jealous,' thing, you know, 'I'll still have time for my kid brother after I'm married.'"

"Philippe thinks you're _jealous? _Of him and Alessia Sorelli?_" _Raoul was the farthest thing in the world from the jealous type. He was brash, certainly; when we were growing up, I had to remind him incessantly to look both ways before we crossed the street. Otherwise, he'd just charge forward like he was some sort of war general. He was quick to jump into things, but mostly because he thought it would help someone in some way. Not because of jealousy. Never because of jealousy. The idea was actually laughable.

Raoul wasn't laughing, however. As much as he complained about his brother, it was no secret that the two were close. Their dispositions differed tremendously-Philippe was usually level-headed, a serious, studious man, a stickler for reason and moderation. Raoul had more energy than he knew what to do with. He was full of ideas and a vivacious sense of humor that was utterly beyond his brother. But their differences complemented each other somehow. Philippe was five years older, and had always commanded Raoul's respect and admiration. I suppose it was admiration for Philippe's knack for careful deliberation, something Raoul lacked. The elder deChagny always made the right decisions. Brilliant decisions with brilliant results.

Except now. For the first time, Philippe was actually being foolish, incredibly so. And Raoul simply couldn't understand it.

"I don't know what he's thinking," he said. The concern in his tone was painfully evident. "I just don't. I can't…what should I do? He won't listen to me. I've talked till I was blue in the face, and the guy's just so thick-headed these days. He won't listen to me. I…hey!"

My stomach dropped. I'd heard that "hey!" before. I'd been hearing it for years. I knew what it meant. It meant Raoul had had an idea, and I thought I had a fairly good grasp of what that idea would be.

And sure enough…

"Why don't you talk to him?" Raoul suggested.

I groaned. "Oh, Raoul, I can't-"

"No, wait, just hear me out for a second." He turned towards me with an eager expression, every bit the ten-year-old proposing we blow up the tree house to see what would happen. "Philippe likes you-"

"Oh, please, he does not-"

"Sure he does, he just thinks you're weird-"

"Tell him I said thanks."

"Yeah. Anyway, he'll listen to you. You've got this-this _thing, _I guess, that just makes people listen to you, you know? You're just credible."

"Raoul, you just told me Philippe thinks I'm weird."

"That won't matter," he insisted. "He does like you, he really does, trust me. He'll listen to you. You've been around forever. He knows you know me better than…probably better than I know myself. So he'll listen to you. He's _got_ to listen to someone."

The little lines of worry gathering between his brows looked utterly out of place on his usually cheerful face. My shoulders heaved in a sigh, sending the blanket that had been draped around them slipping down to the couch cushion. Before I could replace it, Raoul's tanned hand shot down and retrieved it for me. With touching gentleness, he draped it back over my shoulders, pulling it snug and holding it there over my chest for a moment, his hands poised over my chest.

"It's cold. Keep this on," he said softly, "You're still not a hundred percent better."

I swallowed.

"Thanks," I murmured, taking the blanket from him and praying he hadn't felt my heart's traitorous little flutter against his fists.

He smiled kindly.

"Sure…_so?"_

"So…?"

"Will you talk to Philippe? When you feel better, of course."

I rolled my eyes, the "no" poised on my tongue and ready to go. And then I looked at him. Brows furrowed above those clear blue eyes. The color of the sea he so adored. One side of his mouth was curved up in an uncertain, pleading grimace.

I snorted, shaking my head. His frown deepened.

"What?"

"You look like you're ten years old when you make that face," I laughed.

"What, this face?" He exaggerated it this time, an outrageously sappy puppy-eyes pout-complete with trembling lower lip. "Is it working? Am I persuasive?"

There was a brief pause. Raoul just stared at me like that, eyes comically widened, lower lip trembling, looking very much on the verge of laughter.

I groaned, tearing a hand down the side of my face.

"Alright, alright! I'll talk to your brother."

"Ah, thank you, Christine!" He dropped the hyperbolic pout, his expression now one of earnest gratitude. "Really. Thank you."

"But I can't promise you he'll listen to me," I warned him with a sigh. "Especially if he's besotted with Alessia. And I can very nearly _guarantee_ you that _she_ won't listen to me."

His brows furrowed again.

"Why? I thought you were both on friendly terms."

"It isn't that we're unfriendly," I explained. "It's just that we're…well she's stubborn, for one, dreadfully so. And she's…she's civil to a certain extent, but I'm not…"

I didn't know how to say it without telling him, and I knew he would be upset. Still, there was simply no way around it.

"I don't know her terribly well. I'm not performing with her, Raoul. I…she's a bit of an elitist, you see, and I'm not performing in the ballet with her or the…" I bit my lip. "…in the chorus, so she'll hardly want to hear my opinion."

"Wait," Raoul said slowly. "What do you mean you're not performing in the chorus? I thought you said you were going to audition. Didn't we talk about that before I left?"

"Yes." I grew slightly uncomfortable beneath his incredulous stare. "We talked about it, but I…."

"Never did it," Raoul finished, dully. "But your letters said you worked at the opera. You said you got the job. What the heck are you doing there if you're not singing?"

Oh, dear.

"There's a…there's a café they've recently opened. A restaurant."

"Aw, man, Christine!"

"It's a lovely restaurant," I insisted. "It really is! And the pay is helping me with tuition-"

"Christine, how do you expect to major in opera…things if you won't even audition for the chorus?" he asked, folding his well-muscled arms.

"Well, I…Raoul, about that-"

"Don't tell me you're not majoring in music?"

"No, no, I am, just—not performance…anymore."

He looked pained. "Then what?"

"Music education," I said quickly before he had a chance to interrupt. "It's perfect for me, Raoul, it is. You know I've always talked about teaching children, and this way, I don't have to sacrifice music. I can still have music, but without…without the…" I gestured vaguely, hoping it would suffice in place of an elaboration.

He sighed heavily, raking a hand through his hair before letting it fall limply back into his lap.

"Christine." His tone wasn't reprimanding, simply gentle. Concerned. "Do you really think that's best? I mean, is that what you really want to do?"

"Yes," I said automatically, and perhaps a bit too defensively, for Raoul adopted somewhat of an apologetic stance.

"It's a noble pursuit, teaching, don't get me wrong," he said, "Really, it's great. But what…what about you? Your singing? I thought you loved singing."

"I did."

"Did?"

"I do," I corrected hurriedly. "I do, Raoul, it's just…"

"Just what?"

I felt so very foolish, so terribly weak. For goodness' sakes, I'd already ruined his homecoming with fainting and vomiting spells. Was I utterly incapable of showing any hint of strength? Any at all?

"It's just…hard," I finished quietly, silently pleading that he would let the subject drop.

Raoul's expression went from baffled to understanding. He knew. We'd known each other most of our lives. He knew.

"Your dad?"

"I know it's stupid," I said hurriedly. "I know it's stupid, I know it's been a long time and it's stupid, I know, I do, but I just…I can't, Raoul_. _Every time I try, I can't concentrate because…because it-it just-"

"Reminds you of him?"

I nodded wearily. _Foolish._

But Raoul didn't seem to think so. He put one hand on my shoulder and squeezed lightly, kindness ingrained into every angle of his handsome face.

"It's not stupid," he said firmly. "You miss him. You've got every right to miss him. He was a good man. A great man. I…I miss him, too."

I smiled, looking at my hands. Dad and Raoul had just clicked. Both loved to laugh, often good-naturedly at the other's expense. One summer, Dad taught Raoul how to play an Edith Piaf song on the guitar. They'd worked on it painstakingly for several weeks because Raoul was adamant that he wanted to perform at one of the street fairs Dad frequented. The day of the fair came, Dad and I watched as Raoul walked to the stage, awkwardly extracted the guitar from its case-it was almost as big as he was-sat down, placed it on his lap, and promptly forgot every chord but one. So he'd played that chord, simply singing the song in one droning note and making up the lyrics whenever they escaped him. The crowd gave him a standing ovation, and my father laughed for an hour straight afterward, clapping Raoul on the back and quipping, "Maybe you need to teach _me _a thing or two!" Raoul had been elated.

He'd looked up to my father. His own was always distant. Loving, but distant, engrossed in navy life and business ventures and his rapidly growing wealth. Like his brother, Philippe, Raoul's father was schooled in formality, and his son had longed for a break in the endless parade of dinner parties and private lessons and cloistered privilege. And Gustave Daaé, weatherbeaten, scruffy, and sitting under a tree while he played the violin with his daughter, had taken Raoul under his wing and schooled him in fun-in pure, getting-your-jeans-dirty, laughing-until-it-hurt, eating-candy-for-dinner fun. My father always listened; he was genuinely interested in what we had to say, no matter how ludicrous it was. And Raoul still appreciated that. He was never listened to in his own home. Coddled, perhaps, by his doting mother. Distantly admired by his father and brother. But never listened to.

I wondered if, in a way, Dad had been the father figure Raoul had always wanted.

"You'll always miss him." Raoul said after a lengthy, contemplative silence. The warmth of his hand upon my own was comforting. "Of course you will. But Christine?"

I knew what was coming. "Mm?"

"Do you think he would have _wanted_ you to stop singing? To stop doing what you love? I mean, he did what _he _loved."

"Playing the violin?"

"No. Playing the hippie."

Raoul's ten-year-old grin was back, and I snorted, squeezing his hand.

"He was not a hippie, Raoul."

"He _so _was a hippie. Wandering around the countryside, 'love nature, strum your guitar, kids,' and all that jazz. You had a hippie dad, Christine. Which I guess makes you a flower child, huh?"

Raoul fluttered his hands around his head and breathed, in the airiest voice imaginable, "Express yourself, flowerchild! Go where the muse takes you! Do what the muse tells you, man!"

"Right now, the muse is telling me to tell _you _to knock it off."

He smiled, heaving a sigh and shaking his head.

"Look, your dad just wanted you to be happy. I'm sure he still does. And Christine?"

I made a faint inquiring noise.

"You've got a great voice," he said eagerly . "You could make it big."

A blush crept up my cheeks.

"Thank you. But this does make me happy. Working with kids. I love it, I do. And it isn't as…hectic as a singing career would be."

"I don't know about that. If we were any indication, kids can be nuts."

"They do have their moments," I conceded.

"But as long as you're doing something you love, I guess." He grimaced. "I'd hate to see you in some dead-end job. So would your dad."

"It's not dead-end," I assured him earnestly, shifting in my seat. "It's wonderful. You know what the best part is?"

"Cleaning up spilled juice off the nice, new white carpet during my seventh birthday party?"

"Raoul, that was _one _time!" I chided, pursing my lips. "Your mother forgave me."

"After she finished sobbing, sure."

"At least I only spilled once—you spilled spaghetti sauce on something every time your poor mother turned around."

"Alright, alright." He rolled his eyes and reached for the soda can again, emptying the contents before crinkling it flat and tossing it deftly into the wastebasket. "What were you saying about the 'best part' before you started your vicious attack on my love of spaghetti?"

"The best part about teaching is seeing the looks on the kids' faces when they finally understand," I answered, feeling a sudden burst of energy. "When they just _get _it for the first time, you know? When they discover that they love an instrument or hit a note they've been striving for, or start asking questions about this composer or that because they truly love it and they can't get enough…I'm sorry, I'm rambling."

"No, no! No, I like seeing you excited about something, Christine. It's great. It really is…It's…" He tilted his head and stared at me for a moment. Unnerved by his unusual intensity, I squirmed under his gaze and laughed.

"What?"

For a second, he looked as if he was about to say something, but the moment quickly passed, his curious expression faded, and he only gave me a soft, close-lipped smile.

"Nothing. Nothing. You look so…I'm just glad you're okay."

"I'm fine," I said. Notes etched in red briefly flashed before my mind's eye, screaming contradiction, but I squashed the image as swiftly as I could. My stomach lurched nervously. _No. No. _"I'm fine, I just want to hear about your tour, Raoul. We haven't even talked about it! A world tour! That must have been incredible."


	8. Chapter 7

_**Nadir **_

No one died.

They were bruised and bloodied, all, particularly the doctor who had been on the receiving end of his wrath, the one who had dared to try to touch the mask. He was sprawled inelegantly on the floor, his throat purple and inflamed from where it had been nearly crushed beneath skeletal fingers. He was silent but alive. They were all alive.  
Perhaps that was attributable to his wasted condition. Or perhaps it was simply a miracle—that seemed more likely. He had never let little matters like health stand in the way of his bloodlust. It was a miracle.

I had telephoned the emergency personnel after I was sure he had gone. I needn't have waited to be certain of his departure; he was gone, and I knew it. Exactly where to, I hadn't the faintest idea, but I knew what he sought. Whom he sought.  
While I waited with the injured until the paramedics arrived, one of the women, the nurse who had been with him before the crowd's arrival, began to stir. A little flame of panic arose in my throat. She appeared to have knocked her head against the wall when he had…reacted to their efforts to subdue him. I irreverently prayed that the trauma to her head would cause her to forget the entire affair.

But no, the woman—Valerius, was it?— was stirring, moaning as she woke, doubtless feeling the onslaught of pain behind her temples.

I hurried over to her and knelt by her side, concern drawing my brows together despite my trepidation. It was a risk, I knew, making my existence known. And yet I could not stand idly by and allow her to suffer alone.

"Madame?" I inquired softly. Where were the paramedics? Were they not meant to arrive promptly? "Madame, can you hear me?"

"What…Oh, God…"

"Doctors are on their way, Madame. Everyone is alive, don't worry—you simply hit your head…your ankle is twisted, let me—"

"Where is he?"

I cast a quick glance to the heavens, silently pleading with Allah for her questions to cease. Yet she knew too much already. I could not treat her with such condescension as to ignore her questions.

"Gone," I whispered, my voice faltering. "He is gone."

"How?" She let out another moan, her eyes squinting tighter in pain behind the rims of her skewed glasses. I straightened them gently for her, almost inadvertently, and before I realized what I had done, her hand was upon mine. "How? He…he can't…he can't walk…he's ill—"

"He is not," I sighed, dread settling like dead weight in my abdomen.

"I knew it," she said, so quietly that her words were nearly inaudible. "I knew he…I knew he was…Who was he, who…?"

Suddenly confusion alighted over her features, and her eyes fluttered open, still gauzy with the haze of delirium.

"Who…who are _you?"_

I swallowed, shaking my head, and I told her the truth.

"No one, Madame."

And finally, blessedly, I heard the rapid footfalls of the paramedics coupled with their shouting outside the door. I made to pull away, but Mme. Valerius desperately pulled me back, as forcefully as she could in her weakened state.

"Please…who are you?"

I hesitated and stared at her for a moment, ready to tell her everything then and there. Did she not deserve the truth? She knew, she had said. She knew, if not exactly what he was, then at least that he was more than he seemed. She was attuned to it. She knew.

Did she see it in me, as well?

I squeezed her hand as the door began to open, and quickly pulled away amidst her feeble entreaties to stay. My conscience yelped in protest, and I passed one last wearied glance over the unconscious—but alive!—crowd sprawled at my feet. Some were beginning to stir. How could I leave them when I was the only one in this world who could provide them with answers? How could I leave them when I was finally equipped to end it all with those answers?

But I would end it all—they would live, I felt it. They would live, and in leaving them and seeking him, I would end it all.

I was weary. I bore the brunt of the ages upon my shoulders. Was this his burden, as well? No wonder, then, he was so scarred. I had always thought him the stronger for it, had always assumed he was indomitable, impenetrable. And then she had broken him.

Or had she?

For did he not remain? Now, this very moment, he was driven forward by her. We—he— had come this far.

If that was not indomitable, I did not know what was.

"Please," the woman said with sudden force, jerking me out of my reverie. Her confusion cracked me in two. "Please…who are you?"

I shook my head, felt my back bowed beneath the effort. Weary.

"I do not think I know anymore, Madame."

And before she could utter another word, before the paramedics has finished pushing open the door, I was gone.

Several fruitless days passed, and I did not find him. I had thought I might discover him collapsed in the alleyway near the hospital, or hidden within the shadows of some dilapidated building, but, there were simply too many alleyways, too many old buildings, and, predictably, I could find no trace of him. I felt the fool for believing that I could; after all, was it not my doom to pursue him in vain for eternity? For that is what it seemed. I had spent the better part of my life—that life, I should say, that life, in pursuit of him. And now it seemed I was bound to do the same in this life, as well.

I suppose I'd known it all along. I suppose I'd known I would not be rid of him, that I could not be rid of any of them. For we were all of us bound, whether to repeat, I did not know.

But I would do my utmost this time to ensure that would not be the case.

Still, I had enjoyed those twenty years of idleness. I am not a man who relishes action. That is odd for me to say, I suppose, given my history and my profession. A man of the law, a chief of police who cringes at the very thought of a game of cat-and-mouse? Too odd.

It isn't, really. I've always cherished peace—order, tranquility. That is what drove me to it—the police force, I mean. Foolish, perhaps. Foolish, indeed. Yet I was young then—by "then," I mean then—and young men are so often enraptured by optimism and unbridled confidence. It is cruel that life tears it so viciously from them. It was cruel that such an endeavor ended steeped in such corruption, such destruction. I had merely wanted to further peace, order, tranquility.

I cannot help but think of it still, Persia. I do wish I did not think of it—it suffers enormously now. But did it not suffer in the same way, then? I cannot think of it for too long.

Let me turn instead to those twenty years of idleness—in the now, not then— of fleeting, feeble peace, order, and tranquility. I'd sought, upon…arriving… my old quarters in the Rue de Rivoli. Gone, of course. No, wait, let me amend that—not gone. They were still there. The building was still there. It was simply occupied, used for another purpose entirely.

Underwear. My quant old dwelling and those that had surrounded it had been cleared out, refurbished, and converted into a ladies' underwear shop. It was quite disheartening, to say the least. I cared not a whit for Victoria or for her Secret, whatever it might have been— all I knew was that there was a display devoted to hideously pink brassieres where my writing desk had once stood. An equally violent pink rug in the corner where I had kept my prayer mat. Enormous portraits of women abandoning all traces of modesty upon the walls that had once so proudly displayed my tapestries.

I tell you, that did little to lighten my spirits. Yet there was nothing that could be done. That world—my world—had long since been erased. I knew that I stood little chance in this one if I persisted in clinging so desperately to the last.

I made do. By necessity, I have always been very adaptable. It took some time, certainly, to adjust to the customs, to the rhythm of this place—it is infinitely faster than even my chaotic life had been. It has been a learning process, and over the course of it, I have garnered countless curious stares. Some simply attribute my eccentricities to cultural differences, for which I am grateful. It is much easier feigning unfamiliarity with Western customs than attempting to explain exactly why, for example, I never fail to exclaim in wonder upon seeing a television, or a motor vehicle, or, wonder of all wonders, a computer. I cannot tell you how many hours I have spent marveling over the devices in the electronics section of the department store, only to be met with the clerk's bemused, "What, you've never seen a cell phone before?"

The irony of it all has provided many much-needed laughs on my part, I shall say that much. Humor is the mightiest of virtues.

In any case, I made do once I was certain I could assimilate easily enough. Took up several obscure positions—gas station attendant, cashier, janitorial worker, a bookkeeper for a pet grooming service...now, an archivist for a local, rather unremarkable museum. Banal work, all of it, and although I was aware that I could risk drawing attention to myself, I still longed for the driving pace of the police force. The shah's notion of law enforcement had been morally bankrupt, to say the least, and I did my best as chief to weed out corruption from within without capturing his attention (and having my tongue cut out in the process). Yet even still, I'd relished the work, felt an obligation to restore some sense of justice to a nation wrought with chaos.

_He _had often dismissed my efforts.  
"Really, Nadir, must you play the mother hen?" he would say. "It is a damnable waste of energy; only an imbecile would hold fast to such a blatantly futile endeavor. What the devil is the matter with you? "

I was an imbecile, clearly. That was what was the matter with me. I was only one man, after all. Who was I to think I could affect any sort of change amidst such destruction? Who was I to think I could change _him?_

I could not. No longer. All I could do now was curb the damage before it occurred. And this time, I would do the job correctly. There would be no more deaths, no more suffering. I would have no more of this madness. I was too old. Too weary. Quite finished. I did not know what it would take to finally subdue him, to stop him before he reached her and wrought his destruction anew, yet there were no lengths to which I would not go to ensure those sufferings would remain where they belonged: in the grave.

Of course, I was in a quandary. I had no idea what had become of the girl, or her handsome beau. I had no idea where she was, or what she was doing, or what she knew.

What I did have, however, was access to someone who surely did know. A telephone call was in order.

I wondered if Antoinette Giry was as befuddled by telephones as I.

* * *

_**Erik**_

It was a binary of the strangest sort. So musical a discord. I had never been so fully myself and so utterly _not _myself.

The pavement seemed the most unusual, the most bizarre. A reflection of my state of mind at the time, I suppose, and yet I was transfixed by the pavement, solid, cold, rooted in reality beneath my unsteady feet. I studied it intensely as it slid backwards with each step I took. How was it that something could possess such fortitude, such solidity? Did such a thing yet exist? Such a vestige of reality?

Rain snaked down my neck, seeping into the rough fabric of the…robe? Night shirt? What was it, exactly? Dreadful, that much was certain. My kingdom for a cravat.

The rain was frantically persistent, drumming upon my fingers and the tops of my feet, pounding atop my skull before unapologetically creeping beneath the smooth porcelain of the mask.

I removed it. Not a soul was present. Not a soul would see.

And I walked, haltingly at first, feebly. I felt most ill indeed, and yet indescribably invigorated. It was a marvel I could move at all. I was certain I cut a dreadful figure.

But then, that was nothing new, was it? A dreadful figure, surely, likely worse than ever before. Quite shocking, that. I had not thought it possible to be worse.

Yet there was a jarring warmth coursing through my limbs, drumming through my blood, filling my lungs and pulsing up and ever outward until my vision sharpened and the world snapped into crisp focus. Every detail in the alley was magnified tenfold—the pockmarked façade of the brick-walled buildings, the grime sloughed into the cracks that snaked through the cobblestones beneath my feet, the raindrops glinting on a shard of glass that jutted upwards like a crag emerging from a battered sea of gray.

My breath came in labored bursts, and my chest heaved with the effort of motion. I was obliged to place one hand upon the wall to prevent collapse. Irritation flared from within the cobwebs of my long-neglected mind. This would not do, this weakness, these quivering fingertips, this bowed spine. It was waning, yes, waning as that familiar heightened awareness began to slowly crackle with a long-forgotten white-hot heat. But not quickly enough. I was weak, too weak. Damnably weak. Vulnerable. The little display back in the room had been but a momentary burst of strength, a flitting deus ex machina that had been gracious enough to afford me escape, but nothing more.

It was immensely irritating. Infuriating, in fact. I had spent my patience. This frail limping gait, this achingly slow progress was maddening. I had bided my time so diligently, after all, and yet there I stood, quaking to the very core as I inched my way through the alley, Lazarus resurrected yet still querulously shaking off the grave's lingering white-knuckled grip.

The day was waning, however. The sky was sinking to a deep, saturated darkness that seemed to welcome me in its arms like a prodigal son.

First Lazarus, then the prodigal son. I truly _had _gone mad: biblical references hardly seemed appropriate given my…situation.

But this was a situation of biblical proportions, was it not? For whatever had happened continually baffled me. Defied all logic. Yes, I was tugged forward by what seemed like an instinctive throbbing. Yes, I knew. And yet I did not. I did not. Another curious binary. I knew, and I did not. I lived and yet I did not. I was, and yet _surely_, I was not. Not here, at least. _Then,_yes. Here…

Here, I simply did not exist.

I do not know if you have ever been confronted with the knowledge of your own nonexistence, but it is most disorienting. Hardly conducive to a sound mind, and quite the thing to lead one to madness.

From within that thick haze of delirium, I had always found Nadir's attempts to coax me back to sanity these last twenty years intensely amusing. I never said as much, of course—I never said anything at all—and yet the man's bullheaded persistence was nothing short of hysterical.

I absentmindedly wondered where he had scurried off to after my departure. He had likely tended to the casualties before exiting the building, only to resume that familiar act of running about the country like a headless chicken in pursuit of the miscreant. Namely, me. Nadir was ludicrously predictable in that sense.

He was not an idiot, however. Meddlesome, yes, blinded and set to bumbling by morality, yes, but he was not an imbecile. He may have been predictable, but his predictability was drawn from shrewd reasoning. He would seek her out immediately, before I could reach her.

Of course, I could not very well have that. That would unduly complicate matters that were already unduly complicated. The solution, however, was hardly as complex. I would simply have to kill him.

I could do nothing, however, until I fully regained my senses, to say nothing of my ability to walk without staggering like a dying drunkard. It took several hours—hours!—to make any noticeable progress through the city, and though I felt my strength returning, I was still left aching when I stopped near the back entrance of what appeared to be a derelict warehouse. The rain had intensified by that point, and I was drenched to the bone as I numbly surveyed the crumbling building looming above me like a disgraced ancient temple. An apt shelter for the present, so long as I did not remain within its rusted confines for too long. Long enough to regain my faculties, to plan, to seek—

Realization hit me suddenly, mercilessly, its leaden weight settling painfully in my abdomen.

I hadn't the faintest idea where I was.

A city, yes, of that much I was certain. In France, yes—the accents of the orderlies and of dear old DesMarais were undoubtedly native. Undoubtedly Parisian, in fact.

But this was not the Paris I knew.

Again that disconnect, again that warring binary: This was Paris. I knew it. I felt it. Drawn forward as if by some inexorable divinity, I felt to my very core that this was Paris.

But it was not. It was utterly, profoundly, severely _not._

A monumental Something was radically off-color. Wrong. Yes, that was it: wrong. This was all wrong, quite wrong. It was not merely the altered cityscape, the onslaught of unfamiliar stimuli. No, it was something deeper, woven in a steel mesh into the very air itself, buzzing about, increasing in pitch, clanging in a cacophonous disconnect so unsettling, so entirely _wrong_that it threatened to tear me to shreds.

_Wrong!_ it wailed, _You are wrong! You do not belong! Away! _

It sensed my nonexistence, this Paris. That was it, surely: it sensed my nonexistence and, like a great beast panicked by the appearance of a foreign foe, it threatened to expel me.

I confess I was sorely tempted to acquiesce to its demands, so painful was this discord. It clawed at my soul—or what was left of it, perhaps—and did its utmost to kill me on the spot. It had been trying to kill me for twenty years. But it could not.

Because I did not exist. One cannot kill something that does not exist.

Furthermore, I could not allow it to wreak havoc. I had a purpose. I was starved of that purpose, and I had not endured unimaginable tortures only to be bested by that temperamental Something that demanded my departure.

She was there.

There—I felt that, too, as strongly as I felt Paris—she was there, somewhere, perhaps in the very heart of that dreadful discord. The ceaseless thought once again came frantically racing through my mind, quickening my pulse.

_Does she feel it? _

Perhaps it was merely another product of my madness—I am quite mad, you see—yet I felt her. Here. Alive. Breathing. Beautiful. Distant, yes, too distant, and painfully so, but I had not been jerked away from suspended animation on a whim. She was here. Alive. Hers was living, breathing, substantial redemption. Glory, infinite loveliness, and it beckoned to me with a warmth that, despite its distance, lost none of its radiance.

My own. My own.

She had slipped from my grasp once. She would not do so again.


End file.
